#also how do you all like the cover image/art I made for 'Cruel Intentions' on ffn? I think it sets the tone/darkness of this longfic

[aminiatureworld]

In My Dreams IV

Characters: Xiao, fm!reader

Word Count: 3,167

Warnings: Brief depiction of violence, nightmares

Premise: The past is many things. Something to admire, something to learn from, something to hold dear. And yet how unreliable it can be, especially in the hands of ghosts.

In which the reader dreams of the past.

Author’s Note: Translation notes and historical references will come after the fic. This one was a little sketchy/ooc, prolly because I’m tired.

Xiao

If there was one thing that you appreciated most about your relationship with Xiao it was the fact that he never attempted to cage your independence.

Though the adeptus had a penchant for clinginess – something he’d never actually admit to – the circumstances of both his and your past had set a standard for a level of separation that you greatly appreciated. You were never pressured to tell Xiao about things you weren’t comfortable sharing and in return you never pressed your partner in regards to topics or events that made him somewhat uncomfortable.

And yet there was something very isolating about such a freedom.

It was an ordinary enough commission, laughably so in fact, the kind that you could knock back in ten minutes flat if you put a little effort into it. Treasure Hoarders were once more encroaching on Liyue, this time gathering at the vicinity of Dunyu Ruins, something that would surely be a hazard to the archaeologists who gathered to study the lost jade monument. The act of chasing out the Treasure Hoarders was indeed easy enough, and it was only until you started rifling through their loot that you found yourself uneasy.

The lid was an innocuous enough item. Though the box that it once covered was nowhere to be found it must’ve been a work of art, as the smooth tortoiseshell lid was clearly the result of patience and love. Painted a deep blue it depicted a snowy scene, with a castle or cathedral at the front and center. The building itself was of a unique design; a tall turret stuck out at the top while small onion domes sat a little lower, each painted a more outlandish color than the last. The architecture was completely unlike what one might see in either Liyue or Mondstadt, and really there should’ve been nothing to it except the odd design of the building. Yet the moment you set your eyes upon the building you felt something harden in the pit of your stomach.

You never thought about what you couldn’t remember; after all, what was the point of it? Why mourn something you weren’t even sure was good or bad? Yet in that moment you felt that you would give very little to not remember just a little bit. At least enough to know why the image of a cathedral in the snow made you wish deeply for something you couldn’t remember, and frightened you just as much.

“Something’s wrong with you face.”

“Xiao!” You sputtered, surprised by the sudden bluntness of your partner. “My face is just fine, a little dirt won’t kill me.”

“That’s not it.” Xiao scowled. “Your face is harder than usual. Did something happen?”

“Nothing happened! Sometimes I just don’t smile, okay?” You instinctively moved the corners of your mouth upwards, trying to ignore the sudden jump in your heart rate. “I’m fine.”

Xiao looked supremely unimpressed at your efforts, sighing and flying up to the balcony of the Inn. You sighed, letting your expression once more droop. It was easy sometimes to forget how in tune Xiao was. You wouldn’t expect it from an adeptus who had spent thousands of years mostly secluded from humans, but your partner was impressively good at reading your mood. Usually you didn’t mind the ability of his, even welcoming the fact that he so bluntly brought up the question of your feelings. But today you wished despite yourself that he was a little less aware. After all, how could you explain to your partner what you didn’t even understand yourself?

The rest of the night was oddly tense. Though Xiao said nothing you could tell from the way he stared intently at your face that he hadn’t given up his suspicions. For your part you tried to ignore his gaze, talking about trivial matters such as the question of replacing the Guild roof and the fact that you had managed to gather a few Qingxin during your commissions. All the while you felt the roiling of your heart; and all the while you kept rubbing your fingers along the smooth finish of the lid in your pocket as if in doing so you might suddenly be struck with what you currently missed and currently, desperately, needed.

The next day you walked up to Katherine utterly exhausted. Though you’d made a concerted effort to sleep, knowing that if not you’d just arouse more worry in Xiao, most of the night had been spent tossing and turning, your eyelids feeling paper thin as you attempted to drag yourself down into the depths of sleep. Of course now that the sun was shining you felt like even a stone bench would be a soft enough mattress. Blinking heavily you smiled awkwardly at Katheryne.

“Any commissions today?”

“Two ordinary sweeps and one request.” Katheryne tilted her head slightly. “Are you sure you don’t need rest?”

“I’m perfectly fine Katheryne, thank you for worrying. You said there was a request?”

“Yes. It seems that the citizen who noticed the Treasure Hoarders for us claims to have been robbed by them. He says to meet you at Dunyu Ruins so you can hand over the item.”

“And what item is that?”

“He said it was some sort of box lid. He didn’t give many details I’m sorry. If you’re uncomfortable though of course we could send someone with you.”

“I’ll be fine, thanks for worrying.”

“Of course! Good luck!”

“Thanks.”

You turned around, trying to stem the ice that flooded your veins. Who was this man to whom the cathedral belonged? How did he come across such an odd item, was he from one of the other nations of Teyvat you hadn’t visited? Most of all you wondered if he held some connection to your past. The idea thrilled you in some way, though dread also lingered. You weren’t entirely sure you wanted to meet this mysterious person. Commissions were commissions however; you wouldn’t betray the Guild. No matter how much you wanted to; you couldn’t.

The Dunyu Ruins were still, no monsters seemed to linger at the gates and no other adventurers peeked out from behind old walls. The air was utterly still, something which worried you greatly. Walking at an increased rate you sought out your mysterious commissioner. The more you thought about it the more you wished the whole thing to be over as soon as possible. Turning the corner you stopped in your tracks, gazing in awe at the person a few meters in front of you.

The first thing you thought was how oddly he was dressed. The second thing was that he was much younger than you had expected. The third thing was that you felt an odd sense of familiarity from him.

“Ah yes, the adventurer who accepted my commission. Have you brought what I asked of you?”

Though a response was certainly in order you found the words stuck in your mouth. Staring at him you felt the ground shift between your feet slightly. He was familiar, this young man in front of you, and yet he was also a perfect stranger. He seemed more like an apparition than anything, a spirit who had yet to cross to the far side. You stepped closer, reaching out your arm slightly. If you went to touch his shoulder, would your fingers go right through him?

“You really must think it’s odd that I’ve returned.” The man chuckled. “I assure you I’m completely real. You weren’t the only one to survive sister, though I know that information might be too little too late?”

“Sister?” You snapped out of your trance. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Surely you aren’t pretending not to recognize me? I think that’s beneath even you. Come now, was I such a brat as that?” Reaching out the young man went to grab your hand. Instinctively you pulled away, feeling discomfort shoot through you.

“I don’t know what you mean? And you certainly aren’t my brother! I’ve never had a brother!”

“Then who was the kid you lived with your whole life before the incident?”

“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know about any incident or any brother. You asked me here to return something so I’m returning it.” Reaching for the lid you thrust the little work of art in front of you. “Here. Take it.”

“So you really don’t know who I am?” The young man reached out to take the lid. “How is that possible? Have they gone so far as to erase me from your memories? Have I been taken out of your family?”

“They?”

“The gods.” The young man’s eyes seemed incredibly harsh all of a sudden. “Their presumptiveness holds no bounds.”

“Don’t speak of the archons that way.”

“Answer me this,” the young man ignored your protest, “where are you from.”

“Why should I tell you that?”

“Humor me.”

“I…” You stood there for a moment, wondering whether or not you should tell this strange figure the truth. Morbid curiosity floated in your mind, and you took a sharp breath. “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

“So I really have been erased from your mind.”

“Nothing’s been erased! I just don’t remember, should that surprise you so much?”

“Yes, it does. I see my plans will have to be changed.” The young man took a deep breath. “Very well then, we shall see what we shall see. I have an offer for you.”

“And what is that?” You felt suspicion wash over you.

“Join the Abyss.”

“Over my dead body!” Instinctively stepping away you drew your polearm. So that’s what this was about.

“I figured you might say that. However, let me tell you this. Our family was torn apart by the cruel whims of faraway gods. Teyvat suffered the same fate, still suffers it. You may not remember what happened to us, but I know it is buried in you somewhere. If you wish to avenge our family, then you’ll join us.”

“I have no petty thoughts of revenge against the gods.”

“That may very well change.” The young man smirked. “I’ll be back in a week. I expect your answers then.”

He was gone before you could say anything, carried away by a blanket of purple stars. You stared at the empty ruins, confused and empty, feeling far worse than you had felt when you arrived here.

“You look worse.”

“Thanks Xiao.” You let out a sigh, unsure how to respond.

You’d spent the rest of the walk back to the Wangshu Inn in agony, thoughts darting back and forth as you tried to reason with yourself about the veracity of the young man’s claims. There was no proof he was who he said he was after all, no proof that he wasn’t simply insane, or trying to convince you to join him by lying. Yet there was something about him, his demeanor, his anger, something that spoke to a truth about him. Not that the idea made you any happier. After all truth or not, he was still an Abyss member, or at least an advocate. You could never side with him, even if he was your long lost family. And yet what if he was your family? What then? Would it truly be a betrayal then to simply send him packing?

Xiao’s hand enveloped your own, the soft warmth drawing you out of your confused thoughts. Looking up you found him leaning into you, the tips of his hair lightly brushing your cheeks. His eyes bored into you ask he scanned your face. You stood perfectly still. You knew what Xiao was doing, knew that he was trying to figure out the depths of your discomfort. It was valiant of him, even if you hoped that he turned up empty handed. How could you tell Xiao, an adeptus who served directly under Rex Lapis, about the man who blasphemed the gods.

“You should sleep.” Xiao finally pulled away.

“It’s still early evening.”

“You didn’t sleep well last night, I could tell. You should sleep now; maybe you’ll feel better.”

“Maybe.” You replied, knowing that even if you slept better than you had ever before nothing would change when you woke up.

Still your eyelids were heavy and your feet aching. Sleep beckoned you with open arms, and you were quick to fall into its depths. Pressing a soft kiss on Xiao’s cheek you made your way up the stairs. Collapsing onto your bed you let out a sigh of relief. Sleep was coming on fast, and you quickly found the outside world swirling away. The last thing you were aware of was a dent in your mattress, and a set of familiar eyes staring down at you, filled with affection and worry.

It was dreadfully hot. That was the first thing you were aware of. The second was how loud everything was. There was a terrible sound swirling around you, inhuman shrieks seemed to rise up from the ground beneath you, accompanied with a banging that cracked through the air, echoing oddly in a night that was all too quiet. The third thing was that you had no idea where you were. Looking around you found yourself reeling at the scene that met your eyes. The house in front of you must’ve been nice at some point, but now had fallen into ruin and disrepair. Smoke was drifting up from a door that led into the ground, and bottles lay in pieces on the ground. A wall seemed to separate the house from the outside world, so tall that you had no idea what lay beyond it. Trembling slightly you felt yourself move towards the source of the noise, feet moving despite the rising dread that you felt. Making your way down a set of stairs a few lines came to you all of a sudden.

A ceiling of amber, a pavement of pearl

The smoke was thicker now, filling your lungs, leaving you short of breath. Little bits of orange blurred your vision, wielded by strange men in strange uniforms. They seemed distorted in the smoke, made into ghosts that might haunt a child’s nightmares.

Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still

You didn’t move your head towards the back of the room, somehow you couldn’t. Your very soul fought against it. Instead you closed your eyes, overwhelmed with how hot it was.

“You’ve come so far and you can’t even look?”

The voice was mocking, familiar, full of scorn. Opening your eyes you stared at the men in front of you, the men with fire at the tips of their hands. Why did he want you to look? You knew what you’d see. Somehow you knew.

We climb’d on the graves, on the stone worn with rains

You couldn’t make it out among the smoke. All you knew was that it was red.

You screwed your eyes shut, even as sudden clarity danced before you. Someone was calling your name.

There was a hand on your shoulder.

And alone dwell forever

The smoke cleared, and with it the dream.

The scream ripped through your throat before you could even process it. You knew that you should stop, knew that you were no longer dreaming, knew that the hand on your shoulder belonged to your terrified partner. Still you screamed. You screamed and screamed and screamed.

“Hey. Hey!” Xiao’s voice was frantic. Shifting your gaze towards him you felt yourself begin to tremble.

“It, it was true. It was true, I saw him. I saw him. I saw me. It was true. I, I, they’re dead. They’re dead.”

“It was a dream. No one’s dead.”

“But Xiao, they’re dead. He was right, they’re gone and dead and somehow I forget them.”

The loneliness slammed into you, mixing with the horror that sent your stomach churning. You dug you nails into your palm, desperately trying to stop shaking. Everything seemed distorted, the light emerging through the window just as menacing as the dark.

“Take my hand.”

Xiao pulled one of your hands on his lap, gently opening it and running his fingers over the marks that now rested in your palms. Unfurling your hand you it was flat against his he covered it with his own. Letting his palm rest gently against yours he looked up at you.

“No one is dead. You were having a nightmare.”

“I was remembering, Xiao. I finally remembered something. And now I wish I never had.” You unfurled your other hand, wiping furiously at the tears that pooled in your eyes. “I’m so alone Xiao, I’m so alone.”

“You aren’t alone.”

“My family, my family is gone. The only one left is an Abyss member. I, I’m so utterly alone.”

You felt Xiao drop your hand slightly. The sudden lost connection made your founder for a moment, but soon the feeling was lost as Xiao wrapped his arms around you. Pressing kisses to your forehead his grip was tight and strong, encasing you utterly in soft comfort. Letting yourself collapse slightly you leaned into his embrace.

“You’ll never be alone. I’ll always be here.”

If promises were conveyed in actions then you had no reason to doubt Xiao’s. Though the air around you was sticky with heat you found yourself pressing into your partner’s chest eyes more, soaking up every bit of connection that you could get. Xiao said nothing more, simply keeping you in his embrace, lips brushing against your cheeks as he kissed away your tears.

You knew that he wouldn’t ask about your brother that night, perhaps not even the morning afterwards, or even tomorrow evening. After all your partner wasn’t one for words, and your relationship wasn’t built upon the expectation of painful transparency. If you weren’t ready to talk he wouldn’t push you.

Eventually your tears slowed, though the pain in your chest still burned like a brand. Bringing your hands to your chest you gazed up at the adeptus who was still wrapped around you.

“Can we stay this way a little longer?”

Xiao’s eyes gleamed catlike in the moonlight. Leaning down he brushed his lips against yours, sighing slightly as you met him with exhausted ardor. Pulling back you rested your head on your partner’s chest. The dulled beat seemed almost musical, a reminder that Xiao was alive, a reminder that he was right next to you.

You had assumed in some way that it meant he didn’t care, or didn’t want to know. Though you would’ve never thought that before, the feeling of loneliness that had threatened to swallow you up had made that perfectly clear. Yet Xiao did care, cared enough not to prod and poke at wounds that were surely bleeding even now. Cared enough to kiss your worries away, cared enough to let you embrace him as long as you needed. Cared enough to show that you weren’t truly alone. 

In a week you’d give the young man who had once been your brother an answer. In a week you’d face the fact of your loneliness, of a family that you’d once been a part of. In a week you would let yourself be truly lonely. But until then you would listen to the familiar beat of Xiao’s heart as you remembered that you weren’t truly alone. That you never would be.

-------

The box lid itself was based off nothing in particular. The building painted on it is a reference to Saint Basil’s Cathedral. 

The poem I used was “The Forsaken Merman” by Matthew Arnold

The scene in the reader’s dream is a reference to the execution of the last Imperial family of Russia. It took place in the basement of the Ipatiev House in Ekaterinburg on July 17th/18th 1918. 

[thememcry]

THE POSITIVE & NEGATIVE; Mun & Muse - Meme.

fill out & repost ♥ This meme definitely favors canons more, but I hope OC’s still can make it somehow work with their own lore, and lil’ fandom of friends & mutuals. Multi-Muses pick the muse you are the most invested in atm.

My muse is:   canon / oc / au / canon-divergent ( potentially ) / fandomless

Is your character popular in the fandom?  YES / NO. 

Is your character considered hot™ in the fandom?  YES / NO / IDK.

Is your character considered strong in the fandom?  YES / NO / IDK. (apparently there are youtube comments circulating about how boring or weak aerith is. if an explanation needs be provided for how strong of a woman, character, and fighter she is in her own regard then the point of the character is missed entirely.)

Are they underrated?  YES / NO.

Were they relevant to the main story?  YES / NO.

Were they relevant to the main character?  YES / NO / THEY’RE THE PROTAG.

Are they widely known in their world?  YES / NO.  (the big baddies know of her, the little baddies know to look for her and the heroes just learned of why she’s important).

How’s their reputation?  GOOD / BAD / NEUTRAL.

How strictly do you follow canon?

      it depends entirely on the person / character i’m writing and what verse they’re in. when someone approaches me and doesn’t specify a verse i give them main verse (ff7r) and follow canon as closely as i’d like. but most of my threads diverge from canon for exploration or other purposes. i’m not concerned with how close to canon my aerith is ------obviously i’d like people to hear her voice when i have her speak, or see her performing the actions i have her commit to but i’d also like this interpretation to be my own. so when someone reads a piece of my writing they say oh yes, that’s kay’s aerith definitely.

SELL YOUR MUSE! Aka try to list everything, which makes your muse interesting in your opinion to make them spicy for your mutual.  

      i could make an entire post about all of the things i love about aerith gainsborough on its own, so i’ll try not to let this be too rambly.

      she is such a three-dimensional character and she always has been. people expect just to meet the damsel in distress, to rely on cloud and company to help her out at every twist and turn. square even did a good job selling her appearance: soft pinks, gentle features, and when she was given a voice actor the first few times they always went the route of someone who had a lighter lilt. to the first glance she is very much all of those things. except it’s not all she is.

      aerith wears masks to cover the horrendous things that happened to her as a child: experimentation, the shocking loss of her mother after escaping it, crushing loneliness, an awareness that she was different and nobody around who understood the properties of that difference to explain it to her in a way that didn’t terrify her. she heard the planet, could tell when people passed away and rejoined the lifestream, surrounded by all of these voices yet so fucking alone. and did she let it make her bitter? did she become angry or cold, jaded or cruel? no. aerith is kind and giving without being too self-sacrificing and without making her boring. she’s not as innocent as people are made to believe.

      look at her first interactions with cloud. she flirts mercilessly with him, and then you discover she did it to zack, too. she’s not afraid to express herself in any fashion and she’s unapologetic about how forward and positive she is. despite all of the shitty things that happened to her, she’s still all of these great things. she’s scrappy, she can be a brat (ask the turks!) and she blooms under the cover of oppression that she lives. sure, she’s in a beautiful house with a loving mother figure but she’s in the slums and she’s being watched constantly by some part of the company that wants to see her dissected or worse.

      and she’s divine. no, literally. of course it takes her death for the realization of that divinity to really be understood by the fan base and even by her own party, but once aerith dies she becomes an actual deity. it’s sad that you don’t get her in your party any more but it’s obvious how much she affected everyone she worked with (and even those she didn’t). they spend the rest of the game avenging her, they spend the rest of the game explaining their grief over her loss, promising her death won’t be in vain. and once that’s done? there’s an entire movie where cloud deals with his grief over everything, but mainly his self-appointed guilt over her death. as if he could have changed it? i mentioned to @seraphicwiing​ in a conversation (an au one) about sephiroth and aerith ------he didn’t kill or break her. he gifted her divinity.

      so this sweet flower girl goes from a first appearance damsel in distress to an actual conduit of the planet, watching over her friends and everyone else from the spiritual plane of it. controlling the lifestream itself to rise up and crush back meteor.

      if you don’t like her by this point, it’s a lost cause. honestly, just go play pacman or something.

Now the OPPOSITE, list everything why your muse could not be so interesting (even if you may not agree, what does the fandom perhaps think?).  

      maybe strong female leads aren’t your cup of tea? perhaps you really wanted aerith to maintain her softness and have none of the bite or edge that i argue make her interesting?

      some people want a strong woman to be something like paine in ffx-2, or lightning in ffxiii, or even lulu in ffx itself ... dark and perhaps a bit brooding, angry with someone or something. they can be gentle but they’re mostly a razor sharp edge threatening to slice anyone who tries to get close to them. aerith is arguably a hot take on the stronger female leads ... even compared to tifa. you don’t doubt that a woman who fights with her fists is a tough, bad bitch ... but aerith isn’t physically strong. she’s the image of a princess honestly and that’s just not what some people want to see or deal with.

      arguably her personality can come off a bit strong. she’s snarky and, as i said, a tease. she can be bratty from time to time and that can absolutely be read as irritating, especially to someone whose looking for negative personality traits to focus on at a first glance.

      and a lot of people just see her as a love interest to cloud. and she is, i won’t deny that. it’s been further addressed in the remake with her dream sequence that cloud absolutely has feelings for her. it dredges up the age-old argument from 1997 of: tifa or aerith. why does it have to be or? why can’t he love them both in different ways? or the same way? it’s not like aerith has a lot of time to be the love interest, anyway. we all know how disc 1 ended, by this point.

      perhaps people see her end-game divinity as a deus-ex mechanic. sure, it kind of it. but the game never hid its intentions of why aerith was there. she was always special, we just didn’t know how. she always had holy, we just didn’t know what it meant at the time. but it does seem a bit convenient that right as the meteor is going to crush midgar ------here comes the lifestream, holding it back so holy can stop it! wow, amazing! darn that aerith and her connection to the planet. how awful. maybe cloud could have just braver’d it.

What inspired you to rp your muse?  

      i love her. it’s just that simple. she’s so complex and so different from other characters i tend to gravitate toward. she has a darkness but she’s good, genuinely. i usually go for people who are deeply seeded in some kind of trauma, or are just generally a piece of shit. and aerith certainly has her trauma, but she’s risen above it. she chooses to live her life as much as she can before the ultimate doom clock ticks to 0, you know?

      i admire her beauty. not just her physical beauty (and she is), but the beauty of her as a person. i wish i could be as endlessly positive as she is, even faced against such awful odds. i wish i could be the kind of person who surrounds themselves with people who love them, despite their flaws. but i am very much the opposite of aerith.

      i consider myself endlessly lucky to be a mouthpiece of some kind of version of her. this is a character i’ve had a connection to since i was like, 7 or 9 (and i’m 30 now). the very fact that i get to log in every day and express some form of this wonderful character keeps me connected to her. she has a loud voice in my head, and i think she always had. i think that remake just re-lit the flame for her.

      i wrote her a long time ago, during myspace rp days. but we all know how myspace ended. so i choose to write her now because it feels right. and i really do enjoy having someone who shines so brightly in my head.

What keeps your inspiration going?  

      the same as everyone else, i think: music, clips of the character, art of her ... but mostly? my writing partners. i wouldn’t be anywhere without the people in this site who come to me every day with an interest in my interpretation of aerith. i never expected so many lovely humans to want to see what i can do with her. but i have people dm’ing me on discord every day with ideas or thoughts, with musings or what-if’s ... and it really just keeps this muse so alive for me.

      even though i have a backlog of drafts and inbox things to answer, i can know that they will get done ... it’s just up to me as a human to write things out.

Some more personal questions for the mun.

Give your mutuals some insight about the way you are in some matters, which could lead them to get more comfortable with you or perhaps not.

Do you think you give your character justice?  YES / NO. 

Do you frequently write headcanons?  YES / NO.

Do you sometimes write drabbles?  YES / NO.  (i’d prefer to write out a reply to a solo drabble).

Do you think a lot about your Muse during the day? YES / NO. 

Are you confident in your portrayal?   YES / NO. 

Are you confident in your writing?  YES / NO.

Are you a sensitive person?  YES / NO.

Do you accept criticism well about your portrayal?

      in the proper context. i don’t want someone coming on here and telling me i play aerith wrong because it’s not what she would do canon. that’s cool, i don’t write her strictly canon. but if i’m having doubts and i ask for the feedback, i’m open to it.

Do you like questions, which help you explore your character?  

      always. i am 100% always accepting development questions.

If someone disagrees to a headcanon of yours, do you want to know why?  

      nope. i don’t care if you agree with my headcanons or not. i’m sure there are people who don’t like that i have a ship with a sephiroth, or a reeve, or that i’ve had her mess around with rufus or biggs. i’m sure there are people who despise the way i make her speak to people ... and that’s fine. they’re allowed to. but this is my interpretation of aerith and so far i’m loving everything that i’ve gotten to do with her. especially those things that include character building with others.

If someone disagrees with your portrayal, how would you take it?

      they’re allowed to disagree. they’re also not beholden to follow me. i won’t be upset if they unfollow me. it’s their comfort, after all. and i’d rather spend time on here enjoying myself than either having someone voice their dislike of my interpretation or get vocal about how they’re uncomfortable.

If someone really hates your character, how do you take it?  

      people have really hated aerith since 1997. they’re allowed to have their silly opinions of her. and i’m allowed not to entertain them.

Are you okay with people pointing out your grammatical errors?  

      please do. i’m human and i make mistakes. i’d love to fix them.

Do you think you are easy going as a mun?  

      yes, but i’ve had people mention that i seem a little unapproachable. please approach me. if you want to write with me let me know. if you want to chat ooc with me talk to me. i promise i’m an absolute dimwit on my side of the screen. i’m spacy but i try to be as nice and welcoming as possible. somehow i’ve conned a few friends out of this rpc already with my idiocy, so please please please come chat with me.

That’s about it, congrats for filling out!

[bluehhj]

listen to me — chapter 45

LISTEN TO ME — 0045

listen to me masterlist;

WORDS: 2.3K

Sae Murase was the name of the surgeon who patiently explained Jinah's complex case to her friends. She detailed the diagnosis without haste, letting the group absorb each piece of information carefully, even pausing to ask if they understood or wanted her to repeat it using more uncomplicated words, but, sometimes, she was barely answered, given that no one seemed capable enough to focus on her words and enjoy the gift of speech at the same time.

Suddenly, Murphy was right when he said that anything that can go wrong, will go wrong, at the worst possible time.

"Not to say it was all bad, maybe Jinah was a little lucky," the doctor continued her report, finally removing the white mask that still hung from her chin. "The two fractured ribs didn't compromise any of her vital organs, that already cheers me up. In fact, I noticed a tourniquet¹ on her left leg and I can bet that, by the obvious improvisation, it wasn't the ambulance crew who put it there." the doctor, then, looked at Seungmin, who swallowed the excess saliva. Just as Jeongin was Chan's internship instructor, Sae was his, and let's say shaming in front of her was the last thing the younger Kim needed at that dawn.

"She was losing a lot of blood," he said, a little shy. It's okay that a dirty piece of jeans and a half-burnt twig weren't the best options for rescuing someone in serious condition, but Jinah survived, at least. "I couldn't keep pressing her belly and leg at the same time, I had to improvise."

"I'm not scolding you" Sae's smile was so slight it hardly even appeared, but she was pleased with Seungmin's attitude. "Actually, you did very well. Congratulations."

The pride of himself after receiving a compliment was present in the form of a grateful gleam in Seungmin's eyes. He opened a smile as lightly as the surgeon's when Chaerin discreetly touched the base of his spine, congratulating him as well. It was something so small, especially compared to how important the rest of the situation was, but it still made him a little happy.

"What really worries me is the trauma," the doctor confessed, suddenly more tense. "We have done the tests, but it's not possible to predict exactly how she will react when she comes out of the coma."

Seungmin bit his cheek inside, remembering the blood covering Jinah's hair, the bruises on her face and how it terrified him — not from the image itself, but the inevitable consequences. There are cases when a coma can become worse than death itself. Seungmin, then, found himself saying a silent prayer that it would be different with Jinah.

"But will she wake up?" Jade asked, clinging to any loose thread of hope. "There are people who stay like this for years and years. Please, she can't."

"I have to be honest with you," Sae let out her breath slowly before continuing. "And I say I don't know when Jinah will wake up, but I know that if she does someday, it may not be as reassuring as it sounds. Brain injuries are cruel. Maybe she can wake up and stay the same as ever, but maybe a only thing out of place can make her a completely different person than she was before."

"Different in what way?" Changbin wanted to know.

"At best, there is often some long or short term memory loss, personality change and a bit of logical dysfunction" tired and with a headache from not sleeping well for days, and carrying all the daily pressure on her shoulders, the doctor surrendered to the wear and sat on one of the chairs. "At worst, however, it is possible that there is partial or complete paralysis of the limbs, as well as loss of sight, difficulty in speech, among others related to the senses. And of course, we also have the worst of worst, which is when the patient doesn't even wake up."

Woojin slowly shook his head up and down thoughtfully. "If your intention was to reassure us, congratulations, doctor. You did it right."

"Sorry for scaring you all with all these things that might not even happen" although her words said otherwise, Sae wasn't sorry, still holding the same serious look and soft tone of voice. "But it is my duty to keep you aware from now on."

Hyoyeon nodded without much force. She had listened everything with her eyes fixed on the floor and only raised her head again when she assumed that the Japanese girl had nothing more to say. "Are you doing everything for her, doctor?" she asked, then, and Sae didn't need much to understand what she meant.

After all, it was a private hospital. Everyone was aware that the state-of-the-art treatment offered there wasn't paid for on its own.

"I didn't want to get to that part today," she admitted, running a hand over the back of her neck in a shy gesture. Sae imagined that it must be horrible to have someone important going through such a difficult time and still be financially charged, as if the obligation of doctors were to pluck people's money for simple favors, and not save them for the sake of the profession. "But the answer is yes. I thought it wise that all treatments for her to recover faster should be started even before consulting her family. The decision to continue or not, however, is still up to you."

It wasn't a question of wanting or not wanting to continue. From what she had heard from Jisung, Hyoyeon knew that Jinah's parents lived in a dignified manner, but lacked a favorable financial position to handle the situation properly. Chan, Felix, Jade, Changbin, Woojin, and Seungmin could also fit into the same picture. In that circle, only Sooyoung, Chaerin, Yoorim, Hyunjin, and Hyoyeon herself had good money to help without affecting anything. However, though not in the same material proportions, but with the same goodwill and determination, the collective exchange of glances, leaving no one out, made it clear that the eleven were more than willing to do anything for Jinah.

"I'll pay her first night," Hyoyeon offered. It wasn't as if she wanted to completely lift the weight off Jinah's parents, but at least until they arrived in Seoul, she wouldn't mind taking over. Moreover, she wasn't only doing this for Choi, but also for Jisung, who could certainly take no other action.

"That's great," Sae even got up, smiling a little more willingly than last time. Later, she would remember to make everyone aware of the importance of having a health insurance, because it wasn't always you found friends as true as this group. "I shouldn't even thank you, but thanks."

Hyoyeon also opened a mild smile. "It wasn't us who just spent hours doing miracles to save someone's life, doctor."

"Thank God it wasn't us," muttered Woojin, then received a weak elbow from Felix on his back. "What? My body is just dust now, I'm dying of tiredness."

"It's almost five in the morning and you guys still have to go to college." Hyoyeon covered her mouth with her fingers, as if only then did she remember that. However, the rest didn't show much excitement to attend class in a few hours.

"I'm not leaving," said Jade, affected. She was so worried about Jinah that, if she could, she would live in the hospital until she recovered. Chan and Changbin also declined at the same time.

"Guys, you guys spent all night here" Sae watched the tired faces and the growing dark circles. "I'm not asking you to go to class, but at least go home and get some rest before you get back. Jinah's condition is serious, but she's being well cared for, I promise."

Faced with the silent reluctance that ensued for the next few moments, Sooyoung, though she knew no one but Hyoyeon, pressed her lips into a thin line before daring to complete: "I know how worried you guys must be now, but I say, from own experience, that Jinah's life has stopped doesn't mean yours need to stop either. I've been through this same situation with my ex-husband and spent three whole months by his side, unable to do anything. I was so happy when he woke up, but then I saw the confusion that my life changed because of carelessness and I still got anemia because I didn't take proper care of myself."

"Exactly," agreed Hyoyeon. "What she means is you all here all the time won't improve Jinah's health but only worsen yours. And I bet that, as much as you want to stay, no one wants to get a low grade in college right away now that you're about to graduate, and don't lose your job either."

There was a moment's thoughtfulness until Hyunjin sighed and relaxed his shoulders. "They're right," he concluded. "We can take turns and, if anything happens, and I hope not, we'll call right away."

"Anyway, I'll stay here until Jisung wakes up," Hyoyeon said, sounding more sad this time. "He'll suffer when he finds out about Jinah. I want to be around to hug him."

"I think we'd better leave, then," Chan suggested. "Seungmin and I have to come back in the afternoon because of the internship, so, you guys can work normally without having to worry too much."

Jade was the one most unwilling to give in to the rest her body and mind begged for, but even she had to agree that standing still and at the mercy of unwanted thoughts was far worse. The agreement, then, was collective.

"We'll be back early in the evening," Yoorim promised, already leaning toward leaving the hospital with Hyunjin and Woojin by her side. "Anything just call, don't forget."

Seungmin nodded with a weak and equally comforting smile. "We won't."

"You can go too." Hyoyeon softly addressed Sooyoung.

"Don't you want me to be with you?" the other woman replied.

"It's up to you, but I imagine your puppies are very hungry by now."

Sooyoung thought about denying it and saying it was all right, but the memory of not leaving even a little bit of ration in the bowls almost made her despair. "My God, I had forgotten about that! But I'll be back later, okay? Eat a little bit at the diner and take care of yourself."

Hyoyeon could barely answer before Sooyoung ran out of the hospital reception. The thought that she took care of the puppies as if they were her real children was something that always made Hyoyeon laugh. In her view, there was no one more amazing in the world than her little sister, and it was great to have her so close again after so many years away.

Hyoyeon set aside her fraternal sentimentality when she noticed that Chaerin and Seungmin were also leaving. She, then, called the couple back and, when they turned to look at her, Hyoyeon released a long breath and stretched the corners of her lips in a grateful smile.

"Thanks for everything. I thought you two were the last people in the world who could do such a thing, especially for Jisung. I think no thanks is enough to make up for it."

"You don't have to say thank you." Chaerin flashed a smile similar to hers, but it was obvious how embarrassed she was. Her mind had created a sequence of possibilities of what would happen when she met Hyoyeon again and none of them ended with her ex-mother-in-law treating her so well. Not that she was complaining, of course, but she was embarrassed. "And since we're here..." she hesitated, squeezing Seungmin's hand that was intertwined with hers. Chaerin got a squeeze back, as if Kim were encouraging her to continue. "I wanted to say I'm sorry... For what happened at the beginning of the year."

"Don't" Hyoyeon shrugged simplistically. "Jisung is better without you, just as you are better without him. In the end, you did what you had to do."

Chaerin didn't think Jisung was doing that well, at least not with Jinah in a coma; Hyoyeon thought the same, but she believed that this obstacle would be overcome and soon things would get back on track. Thus, the Canadian didn't retort and preferred to believe too. So they said goodbye, both keeping positive thoughts, since these were never too much and Jinah more than anyone deserved them.

Outside the hospital, Jade and Changbin, who walked in silence all the way, finally turned to each other. Their hands were no longer entwined, but any layman would be able to see the almost palpable difficulty they were having to widen the short distance between them. The mood wasn't completely strange, nor too uncomfortable; they just seemed to have lost the ability to communicate verbally. Perhaps this was because they were unsure what to say given the circumstances in which they met again, but the silent support they had offered each other in the last few hours was enough to replace any messy dialogue.

"Take care," Jade finally said, almost in a whisper. Changbin watched her for a few more seconds until he answered in the same tone.

"You too."

Hyunjin was already waiting for the american in the car while Woojin decided he'd get a ride with Seo this time around — or was just kicked out of the front seat when Yoorim, in her own words, said "near my man, only I sit". Jade and Changbin, then, said goodbye with a small smile and each went to one side. But they didn't care much about it, since they both knew this was far from the last time they had run into each other, both in the hospital and elsewhere.

The walk could be long and complicated from now on, but they had each other anyway, plus a dozen friends.

Step by step. One day at a time.

Tourniquet¹: First-aid procedure adopted to stop bleeding that couldn't be stopped in any other way. A piece of cloth or twine is placed around the injured limb, between the wound and the heart, tightening the binding as if strangling the limb, so that the arteries are compressed and the blood doesn't continue to flow. A branch or bar may be used to facilitate tightening of the tourniquet and maintaining proper pressure. It must be used as a last resort and, only, to control bleeding from serious injury to the extremities, when all other control methods have failed.

a/n: my cousin is studying nursing, so this week i heard her talking about this tourniquet and i thought it was useful to put it here hehehehe but really, it's very nice to see them doing it, but it has to be in case of a very emergency because it can hurt and cause a lot of issues if you don't know how to do it right

listen to me is also culture, okay

and i may be inside the biological areas, but i don't know everything either eh talking about the chapter now, i found it really shit lol but on the one hand it was good, as it is important nonetheless and i also found it right to let you guys breathe before coming back with the bombing (yeah folks, it's not over) tsk, do what

i'm leaving now, bye <3

[momtemplative]

Watching My Diet.

Of Words and Images, That Is.

As for a spoiled life, no life is spoiled but one whose growth is arrested.—Oscar Wilde, from The Picture of Dorian Gray.

1.

When I was pregnant, I was astounded by the amount of shit-advice people felt entitled to force upon me, thanks to the visual whistle-blower of my growing belly.

I kept the book, Ina May’s Guide to Childbirth, by Ina May Gaskin next to my bed like a sacred text. The second half of the book contains a collection of empowered women sharing inspiring stories of their natural birth experiences. I read at least one story every night to off-set the deflating stories that were pushed at me. (One, still clear as day in my mind over a decade later, came from a woman who had never had kids! She said, in low tones and with concern in her eyes, “It’s the most painful thing you will ever experience. You WILL NEED DRUGS.”) 

I would often fall asleep with Ina May’s book on my chest, thinking maybe the positive messages would cause seep into my being, like a topical treatment.

Now, during the era of COVID19, the news is an IV drip of mounting catastrophe into all of our collective veins. And the way we receive news during these current times is 24-7, on screens, visual, relentless and without limits. (PS: as said in Time, “media images can be so intense that they can cause symptoms of acute stress or even PTSD.”) 

Like many, I find myself falling into the habit of using my few-far-between windows of space to either read updates from the Post and the Times, or to check social media. While informative at best, these word-venues are, nutrient-wise, anemic crumbs not suitable for a bottom-feeder.

So why the impulse to keep going back?

According to Time Magazine, “The human brain is wired to pay attention to information that scares or unsettles us—a concept known as “negativity bias“. Meaning, our brains are predisposed to go negative, and the news we consume reflects this.”

On a personal level, my intake of news is rising by the day—sometimes seemingly out of my control. I’ll just be grabbing my phone to check the weather and suddenly I’m well into an article on the pandemic, as if in a trance. 

Without clear boundaries and a bit of mindfulness, the news and media we are ingesting can be far more toxic than beneficial. The effects of constant negative-news consumption are real and complex. 

And I feel the wear-and-tear in my mental state, to be sure. I’ve been taking in the news every night, just before bed, via my tiny phone screen as if that makes it less potent and more manageable. Not the case. I can easily slip into helplessness, along with tasting the vinegar of potent rage in the back of my throat, even as I’m trying to settle in for sleep. 

Anxiety and stress create cortisol, which can wreak havoc throughout the physical body and beyond. My neck and shoulders feel like they are clutching with white-knuckles for some unseen disaster, pretty much all the time. Yoga and breathing provides a world of help while doing it, but the muscle memory is so deep, that the bad patterns often return within moments of back-to-life.

This is not to say the solution is to bypass the news entirely. But if we are in this for the long haul, deliberate choices need to be made, for the stability of everyone.

2.

Last week, my dear friend, Steph, mailed a box of crafting goodies to my girls. An eclectic mix of junk-drawer extractions and art things—things that have the potential to clutter up a house. But, when assembled in a package with intention and love, feel like vintage treasures from another world. Girl scout patches, circa the early 1990’s, ribbon in original packaging from the Carter administration, an untethered bouquet of white plastic glitter flowers. And in the midst of this treasure chest: a hardcover copy of the Oscar Wilde book, The Picture of Dorian Gray.

It was a fancy, old-timey edition that I had read through and written-in during college, using the same red ink from the same red pen the whole way through. My handwriting is young—an un-mastered version of my current script. But my brain is searching and inquisitive. I’m not sure why Steph wound up with the book, but there was a time when I passed out Oscar Wilde books like a communist would pass out propaganda and I likely forced it upon her.

Back then—over twenty years ago, more than half my current age—Oscar Wilde spoke to me in a way I was not accustomed to being spoken to, and brought about feelings that literature rarely provided. I indulged in Him, collected photos, quotes, and bought multiple used copies of his books. He became an unwitting spiritual guide of sorts. I carried the story of his tragic incarceration and subsequent death with me the way a god-fearing man would hold the image of Jesus’ crucifixion close to his heart. If they sold Oscar Wilde on a necklace, I’d have bought one, for sure.

Placing my hands on the cover of that book—while my girls squealed and unpacked the rest of the boxed treasures—was not far from the feeling of placing my hands on a body to massage. Flesh—living, breathing flesh. Cracking open the book brought with it not only the slight sigh that takes place in the inner ear during a good stretch, but also a swell of emotions. I flipped through the pages, feeling saved.

The article, What You Read Matters More Than You Might Think, in Psychology Today discusses the difference between “deep and light reading.” Deep reading is defined as reading that is slow, immersive, rich in sensory detail and emotional and moral complexity. It is distinctive from light reading, which is little more than the decoding of words. The author continues by saying deep reading is great exercise for the brain and has been shown to increase empathy, as well as inspiring reflection, analysis, and personal subtext to what is being read. 

A passage from The Picture of Dorian Gray—”Words! Mere words! How terrible they were! How clear, and vivid, and cruel! One could not escape from them. And yet what a subtle magic there is in them! They seemed to be able to give a plastic form to formless things, and to have a music of their own as sweet as viol or of lute. Mere words! Was there anything so real as words?”

Another passage (how can I resist?): “In this country, it is enough for a man to have distinction and brains for every common tongue too wag against him. And what sort of lives do these people, who pose as being moral, lead themselves? My dear fellow, you forget that we are in the native land of the hypocrite.”

How I missed that man. And what a time for him to pay a visit.

3. 

Last weekend, I was feeling particularly ill-at-ease. My speech had edges like so many sharp river rocks. Tears and sadness rotated through in unpredictable gusts. 

On the particular day I refer to, a book called Ordinary Magic, Everyday Life As Spiritual Path all but did a swan dive from my bookshelf and landed at my feet. The cover-image was dated and sun-bleached. The font and spacing came directly from the early 90’s, which is when it was published. I have a vague memory of buying this book at Half-Priced Books in Columbus, just before I made my move out west, in 2002, eighteen years ago. It’s a collection of Buddhist essays that focus on sectioned-out, topics—creativity and community, for example. It did not take long to realize that the editor, John Welwood, steals the whole dang show. His intros to each chapter sparkle with the quiet wisdom of one who is not the headliner, but knows his own worthiness.

(As with Oscar Wilde, I could include countless quotable phrases, but a taste is all you need.) In his introduction to the creativity essays, Welwood said, “By being still and receptive, instead of busily trying to find solutions, we give our intelligence the time and space it needs to find an appropriate way to proceed.” I read that line and gently set the book on my lap to take pause and think to myself, Thank god.

Another account of being liberated by the right words.

The Unknowing. Yes, that is the landscape we all inhabit now. How do we work with such potent feelings of lack-of-control? A classic solution would be to distract the hell out of ourselves so the low hum of anxiety doesn’t seem as loud. Or, we could try to re-frame our reaction, teach the brain that there could be another approach. 

Our lives are, in many ways, on hold as we await a vaccine to protect our collective physical health. But our mental health is not on hold. Our intellect is under non-stop media siege and our sanity begs to be nourished and protected now more than ever. An essential piece of that puzzle (the puzzle of avoiding going clinical insane, that is)—more so than what’s contained in a bottle or that can be purchased online with a credit card—may very well already live on our bookshelf.

John Welwood also said, “What is fresh and alive comes only from the unknown.” I’m pretty sure I’m going to have that phrase tattooed on my forearm  in old-english script after this whole thing is over. 

May 17, 2020

[lesbianarcana]

could you just... like... answer all of those questions at once? I can't pick one but I wanna know all the things

Oh God okay

[[MORE]]

1. When did you start playing?

Oh a long time ago...over a  year ago I’d say? The main 3 were only up to uhhhh the Hermit book I think. I remember I stopped playing after that gross fetishy Asra CG came out.

2. What got you into the game?

The beautiful art and the tarot theme. This was before I knew what I know fdjhksd

3. Who was your first route?

Julian!

4. Who is your favourite route?

Honestly Muriel is shaping up to be my favourite so far. Before that, I loved Asra’s route.

5. Who is your least favourite?

So far, Portia’s. Don’t get me wrong - it’s nothing to do with Portia herself. It just feels a little stagnant and flat.

(I bet you expected me to say Lucio, didn’t you? Well, you’re wrong).

6. Who do you play in Heart Hunter?

Chibi Chandra!

7. Who is your favourite to chase in Heart Hunter?

Portia or Muriel!

8. Who of the not playable LIs do you wish you could romance?

The baker. Selasi route when?

9. Opinion on Asra?

Asra is often mischaracterised imo and held to an unfair standard that a lot of the other characters aren’t. I’ve seen many of these arguments and I’m tired.

Asra is not jealous, possessive, creepy, manipulative or shady. Not once does he act possessive towards the MC in any of the routes including his own (a possible exception could be made for the Reversed Ending, but what do you expect? That’s after the MC literally enables that behaviour).

Being sad or cautioning the MC against Julian is not being jealous or possessive. The way he talks about Julian it’s pretty obvious he felt more for the man than he realises, even if he doesn’t understand that himself.

Asra keeps secrets from the MC because canonically trying to remember too much too fast harms the MC. This has been established. In his route, he literally tells you that he hates keeping secrets from you. He takes you into his own personal gateway - an expression of trust and a willingness to open up to you. Does he do these things in the other routes? No, but that’s because you’re not spending that time with him.

I also see people angsting about how sad Asra is going to be when you tell him about Lucio in his route. Lucio harmed his parents and has been cruel to Asra so like idk what you expect. The MC doesn’t know this of course, but you do!

I think we also forget that Asra took a considerable amount of time and effort to rehabilitate the MC, care for them and reteach them basic tasks as well as magic.

Is Asra a perfect person? Of course not. He’s probably overly cautious, he can be a little distant and he reacts badly when in a crisis (see the deal he made with the Devil). He’s not always brave and not always strong, but why should we expect him to be? He’s a human being and he’s bound to have faults, but he has a generous nature and is remarkably well-adjusted considering the trauma of his childhood (don’t tell me that suddenly losing your parents is not traumatic).

10. Opinion on Julian?

I once said that Julian is likely hypersexual and I still maintain that. (For those of you who don’t know, being hypersexual is like..a tendency to engage in compulsive or self-harming sexual behaviour, sometimes as a result of trauma). I think Julian craves affection and associates sexual interest or sexual contact with his worth as a person. I don’t think he does it deliberately or to be manipulative, but because he has a definite self-esteem problem. I honestly see him as bipolar like me.

I think the way the fandom treats him as this dumbass uwu subby boy is kind of annoying. A lot of people I feel erase his bisexuality either by just ignoring it or by making homophobic jokes where the punchline is ‘ha ha he likes dick like you do!!!!’ like no shit, he’s BISEXUAL. But he’s also hard-working, brave, clever, pleasant and good-natured, and once he starts to really come into his own, he’s cheerful and optimistic. He has so many more good qualities than just ‘submissive and kinky’.

11. Opinion on Lucio?

This may surprise y’all but I actually don’t hate Lucio that much. I love to hate him as a villain.

I think he, like all of us, is a product of his environment. He grew up in a clan with a strong martial culture; his clan were warlike and frequently made war on his neighbours. We’re all influenced by our upbringing and I don’t think he’s an exception. I draw the line at saying he ‘just didn’t know right from wrong’ though. He’s not a baby.

But the differences between Lucio and the other LIs like Portia, Asra, Muriel etc is that Lucio’s life and his fate and the hardships he’s faced are almost entirely due to his own choices. It was he who decided on the eve of his eighteenth birthday to kill his parents. He sought out Vlagnagog with the intention of making a deal. He chose to continue to make deals. He knew he carried the plague and he chose to carry it across the continent including into Vesuvia, causing the deaths of thousands. He murdered and blackmailed his way across the continent. He wouldn’t have even needed to bargain for a new body if he hadn’t caught the plague that he brought into Vesuvia himself after making a deal etc.

Do I think he is a sort of cackling, villainous cliche or unrepentantly evil? No. I think he’s a person who has made deliberate choices that he is facing the consequences for and IMO it’s important that he face those consequences. I do think his main issue is entitlement and a profound lack of self-esteem (I don’t think he really believes any of the stuff he actually says about himself or other people; even Lucio’s not delusional).

I mean that’s about as generous and objective a take on Lucio as I can give you. I’ve made my feelings clear on him, but I don’t want to give the impression that I don’t actually understand him as a character, hopefully the above will prove I do haha.

12. Opinion on Muriel?

Out of all the LIs I think I relate most strongly to Muriel because of a few reasons: trauma, touch-starved, lonely and wants to connect but afraid of getting hurt (physically or emotionally).

Now that I’ve gotten personal, I really hate the way Muriel is treated by the fandom. He’s either called bland or boring, or he’s treated like he’s an animal, called feral and animalistic. He’s none of those things.

Muriel has a big complex about being alone. He was literally given away by his parents and left in Vesuvia on his own, to fend for himself on the streets. Being abandoned by his parents and not knowing why, not remembering is traumatic enough, but because of his size he’s often characterised as aggressive and strong when he’s always been gentle. Later in his life, Muriel was forced to fight and kill people against his will. I don’t think a lot of people get just how traumatic that is; not only being forced into doing Lucio’s bidding, but being forced to violently take someone’s life. I don’t blame him for leaving to live at his hut and resist connecting to anyone. It’s common for traumatized people to withdraw and isolate themselves, because the thought of getting hurt again is more frightening than being alone. But everyone needs human contact, and I think Muriel struggles a lot between wanting connection and contact (physical or emotional), between not wanting to get hurt again, to not feeling like he’s worth the effort. That struggle is something very close to my heart and that’s why I’m attached to him.

13. Opinion on Nadia?

Nadia has the biggest youngest sister complex and it’s almost amusing because I, too, have the same complex (even though I’m actually the older sibling!). Nadia, like me, feels like she’s always been compared unfavourably to her older sisters, and has felt like she has to work harder to prove she’s their equal.

It’s probably because she’s a Cancer like me. We have dual natures sometimes; the caretaker and the ringleader, who feel like we have to take it all on ourselves to get the job properly done, but who have moments where our self-doubt takes over.

I do find some aspects of Nadia’s route to be sort of odd, where it’s mentioned that the people of Vesuvia find her to be a tyrant. There’s literally no evidence to suggest that, so the only reasoning I can find next is she’s a woc. But race doesn’t matter in Vesuvia apparently so...what else could be the reason? Not to mention she’s been asleep for the past three years, so the people haven’t even seen the Countess in that time.

I feel like we didn’t really get to understand a lot about Nadia even from her route-why did she fall asleep? What on Earth did she see in Lucio? Why did she let him do all those bad things in Vesuvia before he died? (My initial thought was Cancers can be sloth-like and passive, so that could be why).

14. Opinion on Portia?

Of all the LIs I feel like it’s Portia I know the least about despite having probably the most appearances. Sure, she’s quirky and fun and cheerful, and that’s cute, but...what does she want? What does she fear? How does she feel about her brother being on trial?

I’m hoping we get to expand more of her personality in her route. I know her patron Arcana is the Star, so her route will likely be about learning to have faith in other people, but who knows.

15. What is your favourite Arcana card?

Justice. The Empress is a close runner-up.

16. Have you bought any of the official merch?

No, I refuse to give a single cent to Nix Hydra. (I really want those Tarot cards though hhh)

17. What is your favourite CG?

The one where Asra is sitting in the gondola. Squishy cheeks :3c

18. How many Arcana themed blogs do you have?

Three! This one, then I run an Ask Muriel blog at @ask-muriel-inanna and an Ask Asra blog at @ask-asra-and-faust

19. Do you draw any Arcana art? What is your favourite image you have drawn?

The cover I just did for my Arcana comic! I cant link but it's in #arcana comic and #my art

20. Self insert or apprentice insert?

Both are valid, but I have an apprentice OC.

21. Do you have an apprentice?

Yes I do! Their name is Daya

22. If there is one thing that could be made with the Arcana theme on it, what would it be and why?

Idk what this means I big dumb

23. What is your favourite ship?

Outside of the LI x MC ships I really do like Asriel and Portia/Nadia (but only if Portia isn’t her servant anymore).

24. What is your least favourite ship?

Muriel x Lucio, Asra x Lucio or Julian x Lucio. None of them would even consider ever touching Lucio with a ten foot pole and y’all know this.

25. On your first play through, what direction was your ending for the LIs?

Upright babey!!!!!

[searchingwardrobes]

Of Earth and Sea: 8/9

My fic for the 2019 @cssns will drop this Friday, so to celebrate, I’m re-posting my fic from last year (and also because I was a tumblr newbie back then and didn’t post the chapters here, just the link to Ao3)

Gorgeous art by @shipsxahoy!

Also check out the additional art that @cocohook38 made for this chapter here. I flailed like crazy when I saw it the first time! Our Captain Swan family dressed in elvish clothing is brought perfectly to life in her drawing.

Summary: Five years after their wedding, Emma and Killian are ready to start a family. But Emma discovers that raising a family isn't that simple when your husband is a Dunedin (half-elf) and your mother-in-law is neither dead nor alive.

Rated T

Also on Ao3

Tagging:(let me know if you want to be added or removed from this list) @welllpthisishappening @kday426 @jennjenn615 @let-it-raines @snowbellewells @profdanglaisstuff @wellhellotragic @mythologicalmango @xhookswenchx @resident-of-storybrooke @thislassishooked @lovepurplepumpkins

Chapter Seven:

“Lend dreams nin mel

  Glenn-nai i even lands

  Lend songs bo i thul

  Im tur-feel ha in i nen,

  Im tur-feel in i coe,

  Im tur-smel ha in i gwilith”

Tauriel ran her hands soothingly through her little boy’s dark brown hair as he drifted off to sleep in her lap. Every year his hair got a shade darker. When he became a man he would mostly likely have black hair like his father’s. His eyes were already that stunning shade of blue. He still had Tauriel’s freckles, but those seemed to fade as the years went by. She sighed as she watched the eight year old’s eyelashes flutter against his cheeks. Oh, how she hoped her son would choose a different path than that of his father!

It worried her that he had fallen asleep like this. He was so thin and hungry. Life as a slave boy on that ship was much too cruel. A tear slipped down her cheek as she stroked her precious boy’s face. This wasn’t the life she wanted for him. Her heart broke at how she couldn’t even care for her own child. She couldn’t even pass any of her elven strength on to him, since she wasn’t fully alive. She found berries in the forest for him to eat, but what he really needed was lambas bread. Hopefully he would dream deeply enough tonight to find himself in the elven lands, and her people could give him better nourishment. She waved her hand over him and muttered in elvish.

“I polod im-gar, im on-na cin.”

Tauriel let out a relieved breath when some color came back into her son’s cheeks. Using magic in her condition was always a guessing game. One thing was for sure; it wasn’t enough to change her son’s circumstances.

Tauriel heard course words and laughter coming from the clearing on the other side of the trees. She eased Killian gently and swiftly from her lap and into a pile of soft moss. She waved her hand over the child once again.

“Taur, coe; beri-hi hen. Lore, nin red, lore tovon a lor.”

The moss and earth obeyed her command, wrapping Killian like a blanket. The roots of the tree nearby rose up and arched over him. No passerby would guess that a child slept there. Tauriel turned and moved on her soft and soundless feet towards the voices. She almost gasped at what she saw through the cover of leaves.

A man, of dark hair and strong, slender build, had a petite, buxom maiden against a large tree. She was laughing merrily, her head tipped back as the man trailed passionate kisses along her neck. His hand cupped her bosom.

The man was Brennan Jones.

Memories assaulted Tauriel of that painful day when she had found him with another woman. His hands caressing another in the same way he had caressed Tauriel just the day before. His lips drinking in the taste of someone else. It was a jarring image that no one should have to endure. The woman Brennan was with now wasn’t the same one she had caught him with that fateful day. Seemed he was faithful to no one.

Brennan moved to loosen the woman’s laces as she buried her fingers in his hair. He began gasping out, “Loreena! Oh, Loreena!”

Tauriel rolled her eyes as she turned to slip back to get Killian. The last thing the boy needed was to see the wretched man again. Not after the year of misery the poor child had endured. All because Brennan Jones knew nothing of faithfulness and commitment. But before she could take even a step, Brennan’s female companion corrected him.

“My name is not Loreena.”

The coldness of the woman’s voice gave Tauriel pause.

“Sure it is,” Brennan chuckled, flashing the woman that charming smile of his. Only someone who knew him well, like Tauriel, would be able to see the slight nervousness in his eyes. Tauriel bit her lip to keep from chuckling. The man had known so many women, he was bound to have difficulty keeping them all straight.

“No. It is not.” Then the woman transformed right before his eyes. Gone was the head of light brown curls, gone were the petite curves, gone was the upturned, freckled nose. Instead stood a woman of regal bearing, tall, with long, straight raven tresses and milky white skin. Tauriel clapped a hand to her mouth to keep from gasping.

“Carabosse!” Brennan cried. It was the mistress he had taken when wed to Tauriel!

“Yes, it’s me,” the woman replied coldly. “I’m surprised you remembered my name. What was it . . . Margeurite? The blonde you left me for? And you were married to the redheaded elf when you took me as a lover.” She chuckled wryly. “You like a sampling, don’t you?”

Brennan sauntered close to the woman, reaching out to stroke her shiny ebony hair. “Yet none were as exotic as you, Carabosse.”

“Your flattery will get you nowhere, Brennan Jones,” the woman told him, taking a step back. “You should know better than to become entangled with a witch. Especially if you do not plan on being faithful. What is that expression? Ah yes, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”

Brennan’s eyes widened and he went suddenly pale. “Come now, Carabosse, surely we can – “ His words were cut off suddenly as he clutched his throat and gasped for breath. He lifted a trembling hand towards the witch for a moment, but then collapsed to the ground.

Carabosse knelt beside him, brushing a lock of hair from his face. “Sleep well, my former lover. Sleep long and fitfully. For I do not think there are any upon this earth who feel any kind of love, much less true love for a despicable man like you.”

She leaned forward and brushed her blood red lips across Brennan’s forehead, then stood. Still looking at the still form at her feet, she called out, “I know you are there, elf.”

Tauriel startled, and quickly began to head back to where Killian lay.

“Show yourself,” Carabosse called after her. As if Tauriel had any intention of doing her bidding. Until the witch added, “I know your son is with you.”

Tauriel froze in her tracks. She shut her eyes tight and pressed her lips together. She couldn’t risk the witch hurting Killian, so she squared her shoulders and stepped out from the copse of trees. Carabosse smiled serenely at her.

“You can thank me,” she told Tauriel, gesturing at the man sprawled upon the forest floor.

“You knew I was here the whole time.”

Carabosse shrugged. “I could have put him down in the room at the tavern. But I sensed your magic in the woods, and I thought to myself, now that would be awfully poetic.”

“So you’re just going to leave him here.”

Carabosse’s eyes widened in surprise. “You worry for his well -being? After the pain he put you through?” The witch gestured at Tauriel’s body, which had begun to fade slightly. “This whole wasting away thing you elves do. Surely you hate him.”

Tauriel looked down at Brennan’s handsome face. He had a way of charming a woman, of making her believe she was the only one so beautiful, so desirable. Looking back, Tauriel realized his praise was always for her beauty: her hair, her eyes, her figure. He never really knew her heart, her soul, or her mind.

“I gave myself to one who was not deserving. I should have opened my eyes before it was too late. And now I pay the price.”

Carabosse spoke with surprising tenderness. “A grieving heart can make desperate decisions.”

Tauriel’s gaze snapped up to the woman’s face, so cold, so seemingly indifferent. Yet there was a tiny bit of softness in her eyes. “H-how did you know?”

Carabosse shrugged. “Word gets around. Especially when it’s an elf and a dwarf. Two races who are supposed to hate each other. Besides,” she inclined her head towards the trees, “you named your son after him.”

This wasn’t a topic Tauriel wished to discuss with a stranger, so she lowered her gaze back to Brennan. “We can’t just leave him here. Between the wild life and the elements, he’ll be killed.”

“You elves,” Carabosse scoffed as she turned to go, “always helping. Always caring too much.”

“It is against our nature to turn our backs on the weak and suffering.”

“You can’t undo my magic.”

Tauriel tilted her head, “I can change it.”

Carabosse rolled her eyes, “Fine, suit yourself. As long as he spends many long years in that red, burning room of torture, it will be enough for me.” And with that, the witch disappeared in a cloud of blood red smoke.

Tauriel worked quickly once the witch had disappeared. Killian’s presence helped her stay corporeal for much longer than normal, but her time, even with her son, was coming to a close. She didn’t have much time left, and she still wanted to see her child back to his ship. So she first erected a protective coffin of sorts from roots and moss. Then she put a protection spell around it, so at least Brennan wouldn’t be eaten by wolves or freeze to death. Then she spoke a spell over him.

“Lore tenna sanda mel hir cin, lore mal an i lumenns-o tindu, lore.”

Essentially, the spell allowed Brennan to awaken during the brief time between twilight and midnight. Most likely, he would only be partially awake, for Carabosse’s magic was powerful. To most, he would appear like a bedridden, sick man, but at least he would be freed from the torture of that horrible red burning room. Tauriel’s counter-spell also allowed the sleeping curse to be broken if Brennan could find a true love. Tauriel rested her hand upon the twisted branches of the make-shift coffin.

“May you find a woman with a heart so pure that she can make yours finally faithful.”

Then she turned to walk back to their son.

****************************************************

The journey from the land of the woodland elves to Rivendell was normally one of many long weeks, so Emma was thankful for the pouch of beans that Anton had given them. She was ready to go immediately, but Killian insisted they stay the night so she could rest.

“Killian, I can’t possibly sleep with Elien still so far away,” she argued.

Killian reached out his hand and cupped her cheek, his expression a mixture of tenderness and concern. “You died earlier, love.”

Emma chuckled wryly as she grasped his hand and kissed his palm. “Only with us is that a normal occurrence.”

“And you will sleep, I can promise you that,” Galadriel told her, “many have come here to be refreshed on their journeys. You will feed on lambas bread and drink of sweet, refreshing springs of water. And by the time you have finished, we will have a bower ready for you.”

Emma pressed her lips together. She had to admit, she was starving and her legs felt like rubber. “Okay,” she finally relented, “but we leave first thing in the morning.”

“With you, that may mean eleven o’clock,” Killian quipped.

Emma smacked him, “So wake me up, sailor!”

He laughed lightly as he pulled her close. “I won’t let you sleep the day away, Swan, I promise. But I will make sure you rest.”

The elven meal they were brought didn’t seem like much: two squares of lambas bread, a wedge of cheese, and a small bowl of wild berries. Yet it satisfied Emma’s hunger completely, and every bite of the lambas bread sent a pleasant warmth all through her. Then she and Killian were escorted up the winding staircase of one of the enormous trees. One of Galadriel’s maidservants opened a door made of birch branches and thick opaque glass. It lead into a room that reminded Emma of both a giant bird’s nest and a domed hut. The bed was sunken into the bowl shaped floor, padded with the softest moss Emma had ever felt and piled high with blankets of soft deer skin. There were also piles of down stuffed pillows woven of silk. Killian told her the elves harvested the silk from the husks of the cocoons that hung in the trees.

Even though they had complete privacy inside their woven bower, the songs of the elves still filtered through.

“Lend dreams nin mel

  Glenn-nai i even lands

  Lend songs bo i thul

  Im tur-feel ha in i nen,

  Im tur-feel in i coe,

  Im tur-smel ha in i gwilith”

“It’s the same song you sing to Elien,” Emma said with a yawn as she curled up beneath the blankets.

“Aye, love,” Killian replied as he lay down behind her, wrapping her in his arms and pulling her close until she was tucked under his chin, “elvish lullabies. It’s why we know you will sleep long and deep.”

“You said we,” Emma said drowsily, her words beginning to slur, “I thought you didn’t like being called an elf.”

“Sometimes I don’t mind,” he answered, his own voice fading into sleep.

Emma turned in his arms to rest her cheek against his chest. Between his warmth, the rise and fall of his chest, and the song of the elves, fighting the pull of sleep was impossible. I feel almost like the bower is rocking gently, was her last thought before she drifted off, like sleeping on the Jolly Roger . . .

********************************************************

Elien Jones sat at the edge of the pool of water, gathering sticks and smooth, colorful pebbles. The mist from the waterfall that spilled into the pool dampened her strawberry blonde hair, curling the wisps that framed her face. She gnawed on her lower lip in concentration the way her mother often did.

“Is that a fairy house you’re building?” Elrond asked her kindly.

“No,” Elien answered simply, shaking her head. She picked up a waxy leaf and carefully stuck the largest stick through its center. Then she flipped over the sticks she had woven together and pushed the tall stick with the leaf through the center. “It’s a pirate ship,” she explained.

Tauriel pressed her fingers to her lips to suppress a smile as Elrond frowned. She schooled her features then turned to the eldest council member imploringly. “I beg of you to reconsider this plan. Elien is a special little girl. She doesn’t belong here.”

“Of course she’s special!” Elrond exclaimed. “The daughter of the savior, a product of true love, and a Dunedin? She is the perfect match for my grandson in every way. And one day, they will rule our people. United and strong once again.”

Tauriel shook her head wearily. “That’s not what I meant. Her magic is bigger than the elves, bigger even than her mother’s destiny. I have seen it. To keep her here would be like . . . trapping a majestic Eagle in a cage.”

Elrond gazed at her with furrowed brow, “They would rule more than just the elves then, a united kingdom of men and elves. A mighty force for good, for peace.”

Tauriel scowled openly. “Her destiny is more than preserving bloodlines. More than who she will wed.”

Tauriel turned away from the elf to go to her granddaughter. She watched as Elien pushed the little boat gently into the water. It promptly sank. She tilted her golden head for a moment, then lifted both hands towards the water. Her magic pulsed forth, the water bubbled, and the little boat popped back up on the surface. A shimmer swirled around it, and then it bobbed merrily along until it disappeared in the mist at the base of the waterfall.

“What a lovely ship,” Tauriel told the girl as she knelt next to her and wrapped an arm over her shoulder.

Elien smiled as she gazed into the mist, dimples appearing in both cheeks. Tauriel brushed the child’s hair back from her face, her heart aching at how much the child looked like Killian at times. He argued that she looked like her and Emma. But Tauriel often felt she was looking far into the past as she gazed into the little girl’s face.

“Effie,” Elien said, turning to her grandmother with a furrowed brow and a serious expression, “I knew you would come.”

Tauriel smiled as she cupped the child’s face in her hands. “Of course I did. And your mama and papa are coming too. We came to save you.”

Elien’s gaze drifted to the ground, the long lashes she had inherited from Killian brushing the tops of her cheeks. “No. You didn’t. I’m the one who will save you.”

Tauriel’s eyes widened in confusion. “Why do you say that, child?”

Elien’s mossy green eyes looked full of wisdom beyond her years as she held her grandmother’s gaze. “I have seen it in my dreams.”

**************************************************

Killian’s suggestive grin as he helped Emma up after they crashed through the portal was more irritating than attractive. Since she was more focused on dusting herself off and picking leaves out of her hair.

“What?” she snapped, then immediately sighed as she rubbed at a bruise on her elbow, “I’m sorry, babe. I’m just on edge and, you know, slightly battered.”

Killian’s gaze softened as he rubbed her arms gently. “I know, my love, no offense taken. I was merely admiring this look on you.” He then pressed a lingering kiss to her cheek.

Emma smiled and blushed even as she shrugged. “Guess I’d make a good elf, huh?”

Killian’s eyes took in the dress of rich burgundy velvet with gold trim. Emma’s fair skin was milky white in contrast, and the gold brought out the honey-colored hues in her hair. Lambas bread always made skin and hair brighter, but Emma’s seemed to positively radiate light. Her hair was held back from her face in the traditional elven way, braided in loose knots. Emma lifted her hand to pat the braids gingerly.

“These aren’t literally knots are they?” she asked hesitantly, “Cause that would be a pain in the ass to comb out.”

Killian blinked, not really sure what she was saying, more distracted at the shape of her arms as the wide sleeves of the dress slipped down to her elbow. The movement also gave him a peek of her cleavage against the scooped neckline. Emma just laughed and shook her head.

“You can take this dress off me later, pirate, let’s go get our little girl.”

The portal had deposited them only a half hour’s walk away from the borders of Rivendell, so they didn’t have far to go. Killian’s elven senses directed them, and they walked in silence for a few moments. Emma glanced his way, admiring the soft leather breeches he wore beneath the green tunic cinched at his waist. Over that he wore a cloak of lighter brown, edged in bright green thread. He had grumbled when the elves brought the garments to him, but in the end he had to admit that his jeans and leather jacket were not only worse for wear after the run in with the spiders, but weren’t warm enough for the woods they would be traveling through. Emma liked him in the outfit; she swore it made those ears she loved so much seem more pointed, made the flecks of green in his eyes more pronounced. Of course, she honestly liked him in just about anything. Captain Hook, “Prince Charles,” Killian Jones of Storybrooke, or Killian the Dunedin, he was all of those things to her. And she loved every part of him. He glanced her way and arched a brow.

“Admiring something, love?” he teased.

“Always,” she told him, grasping his hook in her hand. She didn’t let go as they made their way along, and finally worked up the courage to ask him something she had been wondering for quite some time. “Killian? Why did your mother stay away so long?”

He stopped abruptly. “What do you mean?”

Emma wet her lips nervously. “When she showed up right before our wedding, you said you hadn’t seen her since right before the curse was cast. That was a long time, and I thought she was cursed to wander after the one she loves most. So . . . “

Killian clenched his jaw, his eyes darting, landing anywhere but on Emma’s face. “I’m sure she was around, but . . . “ he finally met Emma’s eyes, releasing a long breath, “I told her I never wanted to see her again.”

Emma’s brow furrowed. “But why? What did she do?”

Killian lowered his head as shame washed over his face. “She did nothing. It’s what I did. The last time I saw her . . . it was also . . . the last time I saw my father.”

Emma’s eyes widened as she put it all together. “Oh.”

Killian ran his hand wearily over his face. “I was leaving that hut, leaving my father there cold on the ground, and there she was. She looked so . . . distraught. She begged me not to leave my little brother alone. Said she knew it would haunt me.”

Emma stepped closer, cupping his face in her hands. “Hey. Look at me. I’ve heard this story, remember? It didn’t change how I felt about you then, and it still doesn’t now.”

Killian nodded, blinking away shameful tears, and turned his face to kiss her palm. Then he grasped one of her hands with his and laced their fingers together. “I responded to my mother in the only way I could at the time – with anger and rage. I already was ashamed of what I had done, but I wasn’t about to let her know that. So I told her I had finally done what she never had courage to – I made our father pay for all of his crimes. I never saw my mother weep like that. How could I ever look her in the eye again? After what I had done? After I had become so dark?”

“And that’s why you told her you never wanted to see her again.”

Killian nodded. “And she honored my request. But I’ve always wondered. If it was because she – stopped loving me. That I had become such a villain that even she couldn’t love me.”

Emma shook her head as she drew closer. “I have heard your mother talk about you enough to know that could never happen.”

“My father’s love had its limits. Why not hers?”

Emma kissed him softly, first on the lips then on his nose, then each cheek. She then wrapped her arms around him, pressing her lips to his collar bone. “Because she’s your mother,” Emma whispered against his skin, “nothing could ever make me stop loving Henry or Elien.” She pulled back to look into his eyes again. “And she’s so much like you. You could never stop loving any of us either. It just isn’t in your nature; and it isn’t in hers.”

Killian stroked her cheek, a peace settling over his features. “In my heart, I know you’re right. That’s why I just can’t believe that she would take the Arkenstone.”

Emma took a step back, tugging lightly on his hook. “When have we ever let fate determine our future? This family fights for each other, sees the best in each other. I really don’t give a shit what you’re grandmother’s pool says.”

Killian chuckled as he walked alongside his wife. “That’s the Emma I love.”

*****************************************************

Emma had to admit that the towering waterfalls of Rivendell were a sight to behold. And she understood now what Killian meant about the air here. It strengthened her as she breathed it in, and the light seemed . . . not brighter, but more rich, making every color more vibrant.

Yet she cared little about her surroundings once a familiar voice cut through the air. “Mama! Papa!”

She and Killian’s elven escorts, though armed, were no match for their determination to go to their daughter. They both shoved the guards aside heedlessly as they dashed through the doorway into Elrond’s throne room. They then fell to their knees as they gathered Elien into their arms, peppering her with kisses. Killian had been right; the elves had taken good care of their little girl. She was well fed, and even seemed happy. And Emma had to admit she looked adorable in her tiny elven dress of lavender and silver.

“Can we go home?” Elien asked with a frown as she pulled away.

“Of course we can, cygnet,” Killian told her as he scooped her up.

“This should be her home,” Elrond spoke up, “with her people.”

Emma marched right up to the elf and without hesitation punched him in the jaw. “That’s for kidnapping my child. And for the record, her people are in Storybrooke.”

“But elven blood runs through her veins.”

“Well, so does human blood,” Emma snapped back.

“The fate of her people hang in the balance!” Elrond shouted. “We’re talking about the greater good!”

“And I’m talking about what’s best for Elien!” Emma was in the elf’s face now. “I know what it’s like to sacrifice having a family for the greater good. My daughter won’t suffer the same thing.”

“Then you and your husband can stay here,” Elrond argued, more calmly now.

“I don’t think your listening,” Emma seethed, “we’re taking her back to Storybrooke where she has grandparents and an uncle and godparents and friends.”

“I’m afraid it isn’t your decision.”

“Says who? I’m her mother.”

“Enough!” Tauriel shouted. It was the loudest Emma had ever heard her speak. “Elien is my granddaughter, not a pawn.”

“Besides,” Killian interjected, “it isn’t the elven way to keep a child against her will.”

Elrond’s brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed before he lifted his hand and snapped his fingers. His royal guard rushed into the room on their silent elven feet, their arrows making a soft, yet eerie swishing sound as they pulled them from their quivers in perfect synchronization and notched them to their bows.

“I stand corrected,” Killian muttered. He set Elien down gently. “Get behind me, little love.”

Emma inched her way over and she and Killian kept their daughter safely sandwiched between them.

“I don’t want to threaten you,” Elrond said.

“Could have fooled me,” Emma replied sarcastically.

“Elrond, you can’t seriously be considering forcibly removing a child from her parents,” Tauriel argued, “this isn’t the elven way!”

“Not the elven way?” Elrond snapped. “Soon the ways of our people will die out. More and more of our youth are leaving these lands, intermarrying with the race of men. Our magic is weakening, our lands dying.”

Tauriel laid a gentle hand on his arm. “Then perhaps it’s time we joined the race of men instead of keeping ourselves apart.”

Elrond’s face contorted with grief and sadness. “You sound like my daughter. My precious Arwen who will suffer your fate when her true love dies.”

“That’s what this is really about, isn’t it?” Tauriel asked gently. “Giving her a bloodline that will help her hold on as I have done.”

Killian exchanged a look with Emma, and then he stepped forward slowly, pulling the Arkenstone from the satchel at his hip. “If I may, my Lord, offer an alternative?”

“The Arkenstone!” Elrond breathed, reaching for it with a trembling hand.

Killian pulled it back against his chest. “Aye. The stone that will take away your daughter’s immortality. In exchange for my little girl, of course.”

Elrond’s eyes flashed. “Or my army takes it by force.”

“Or I take it!”

Every eye in the room turned in shock at the sound of the small voice. Elien Jones stood in the middle of the throne room, her green eyes flashing fire, magic tingling between her fingertips. She raised her hand towards her father, and the Arkenstone flew into her hand.

“What are you doing!” Elrond screamed, racing forward. Elien flung her hand, and Elrond was frozen in place.

Emma and Killian shouted their daughter’s name, but they found they were frozen in place as well. The stone pulsed an even brighter red in the little girl’s hand. Emma lifted frantic eyes to her husband, but he looked just as frightened as she did.

“Elien, honey,” Tauriel said gently, easing down on her knees in front of her granddaughter, “you need to put the stone down.”

“No, Effie,” Elien said in her little girl voice, “it’s meant for you.”

Elien placed the stone into Tauriel’s palm, then she placed her tiny hands over her grandmother’s. Magic sparked, and snaking red lines poured forth from the stone, enveloping Tauriel. When it cleared, she collapsed to the ground, and the stone rolled across the floor. It was no longer red, but a dull glassy color. Elien released her hold on the others, and Killian and Emma raced to Tauriel’s side.

“Mother,” Killian said gently, helping her up to a seated position.

She moaned and held her head, and Killian grasped her arms, half laughing in disbelief as he squeezed her shoulders, then her hands between his. She hadn’t felt so solid since he was a tiny lad.

“You’re . . . you’re . . . “

Tauriel put her chest to her heart. “I’m mortal.” She reached up and cupped Killian’s face in her hands, marveling at the stubble beneath her palms. Her little boy, all grown up, and she could finally really, truly feel him. “Oh my precious, precious boy.”

Killian embraced his mother then, holding her tightly as he hadn’t been able to in so many long centuries. Tears filled Emma’s eyes as she watched them. Elien flung her arms around both her papa and her Effie. Tauriel turned to her granddaughter and peppered her face with kisses. Then they yanked Emma in for a group hug.

“The stone chose you.”

The Jones family looked up to see Elrond standing over them. Emma smiled at Killian.

“Galadriel didn’t see your mother taking the stone, she saw Elien giving it to her.”

Tauriel shook her head. “But why? Why me?”

Elrond reached out and took Tauriel’s hand, helping her to her feet. “Because of the many long years of sacrifice for your son. You have earned your rest, Tauriel of the Woodland Elves.”

She turned to her son, her daughter-in-law, and her granddaughter. “And I know just where I’ll spend my final years.”

[lycorogue]

Meet My OCs: Willow (Part 5 – Stories)

You still with me? You are friggen awesome!

Just two more to go! This post and the next one, which will be a post showcasing some fun wrestling entrances I created for my husband’s WWE13 game.

Before we really get into this post, though, how about a quick recap of this series thus far?

Part 1: Introduction to the series, as well as explanations of the real-world influences that helped me create my two story worlds of Gyateara and Glitches. Part 2: Explaining the inspirations that birthed each of my four main Gyateara characters. Part 3a: Same, but for my four main teenage Glitches characters. Part 3b: How I reworked 6 canonical X-Men characters into the Glitches main supportive cast of six adult characters.

Meet Willow mini-series:

Part 1: Willow’s background, personally overview, and powers. Part 2: Willow’s main relationships. Part 3: Willow’s history on the X-Future game, and how it will translate to Glitches Part 4: Willow visuals; fanart, commissioned art, and fashion design games

Now you get a bit more into Willow’s head via 5 writing samples. Two are adaptations of the play-by-post game itself, and three others are side-story narratives. Check below to read them.

The Set-up: An example of the Willow/Devon dynamic before Devon left to join The Brotherhood, leaving Willow feeling betrayed.

Word Count: 1174

 - Mutual Teasing - 

Labored breaths fell in rhythm with pounding footfalls. The humidity of the summer day settled on the thick lawn that was a few days past needing a mow. Broken blades of grass stuck to two sets of sneakers. Their path was already visible behind them with the wet greenery staying crushed under their tread.

"There!" Willow panted as her fingers brushed Devon's shoulder. "Finally caught your ass." She gargled some sticky saliva and spat it to her side. She braced herself with her hands on her knees as she took a long breath. Moving her hands to her waist, she exhaled and arched backwards before flopping onto the grass. The budding dew cooled her bare legs.

Devon allowed one foot to slide out on the grass and landed beside Willow. He thumbed his nose and coughed the burn out of his lungs.

"Worn out already?" he laughed. "I thought you do street running or fast running or Perk-ore or whatever."

Willow leaned back on her elbows, tossed her short silver hair out of her face, and focused on Devon out of the corners of her aquamarine eyes. She clicked her tongue against her teeth before huffing a sarcastic laugh.

"First: you're an ass. Second: how the hell did you grow up in Brooklyn and not know what Free-running is? Also, it's pronounced Parkour."

"Eh, whatever. You knew what I meant."

Willow let her arms give out beneath her and stretched across the grass. She closed her eyes and flicked Devon in the wrist as her fingers brushed his skin.

"Hey!" Devon pulled away before smirking and skirting around to her head. Kneeling at her shoulders, he pinned her arms. "How am I the ass when you're the athlete who can't handle a quick game of tag?"

The fifteen-year-old opened her eyes again, only to squint them as if she were trying to stare at the sun. It kept her a couple of seconds to adjust to Devon's exotic brown eyes only being a couple inches away. The flecks of color embedded in the cocoa of his irises flickered a rainbow of reds, golds, greens, and oranges as if Devon's eyes were kaleidoscopes.

Abruptly, Willow killed the silence by blowing on Devon's nose. Instinctively, the seventeen-year-old pulled a hand away to rub the itch she caused. With Devon distracted for a couple of seconds, Willow easily slid her other arm free, twisted into a sitting position, and flicked him in the forehead all as one fluid motion.

"You're an ass because your 'quick game' lasted over an hour with barely any breaks. Plus, your mild healing power increases your endurance. No lung or muscle burn means running is easier. Simple science confirms your assness. Boom." She motioned her hand like she was dropping something, and the image of a three-inch atomic bomb appeared, complete with a mushroom cloud explosion when the bomb disappeared into the grass.

"Bah, you're just a sore loser." Devon tilted to his side and rolled onto his back. "So, whaja wanna do now?"

"Sun's down. We should probably start heading back." Willow stood and brushed the moisture off herself.

"Sun's down," Willow's voice parroted back to her, "We should probably start heading back."

Willow turned to see herself lying in the grass, one leg hooked over a bent knee, kicking slightly.

"I hate when you do that." The real Willow tucked her hair back to make sure Devon saw her full glare.

Imitation Willow laughed in Devon's baritone. Her long, slender legs shimmered as they became quickly covered in heavy denim jeans. Her petite chest broadened and her pale skin darkened to an olive-tone. Finally, her heart-shaped face, framed by an asymmetrical bob, shifted into Devon's chiseled jaw with spiky brown locks; his nondescript features returned, again suggesting that he was somehow all races at once.

"Come on," Devon said once he was back to his normal form, "you secretly love having a twin."

Three Willows formed out of the air behind the original. In unison, all four replied, "I could be however many I want. All you do is simple mockery."

One of the false three walked over to Devon and knelt beside him. She rubbed his chest and stroked his jaw with a silky smile across her face. The original Willow stepped to the side of the other two in order to give Devon an unobscured view.

"I can do more than mimicry though," the real Willow cooed.

The two illusions that stayed behind turned to each other and moved in for an embrace and kiss. Before their lips met, they transformed into Devon sloppily making out with himself.

The seductive Willow illusion still stroking Devon's chest burst into laughter. The real Willow joined suit. With a flick of her wrist, the illusionary Devons were only in matching white boxers with hearts on them. One Devon grabbed the other's ass.

"There we go," Willow snorted, "much better. Don't you think? Oh, and a goosing too. You frisky devil."

Devon smirked. "I think I'm damn handsome actually, and would gladly make out with myself given the chance. I also think you secretly want to see me in those." He gestured towards the boxers and winked at the real Willow. He then tapped the illusion Willow on her nose to disperse her; breaking Willow's spell.

Willow huffed as she waved her hand as if erasing the illusion of the making-out Devons. They too vanished, leaving only the original Willow and Devon alone in the field.

"Well, I think you have too high of an opinion of yourself." Willow crossed her arms in front of her and pouted; her fun ruined. "Like I'd want anything to do with you and your boxers."

Devon stood up and chuckled. "Say what you want. Your illusion showed me all I needed to know."

"Shut up! I was trying to mess with you."

"Would have worked if you got some details right." Devon dramatically shrugged with his arms out to his sides. "For starters, you clearly don't know how make-out sessions work."

"Y-yes I do!" She blushed. "I was purposely making it bad to imply that you're a bad kisser."

Devon shoved his hands deep in his pockets before walking over to Willow and leaning in close. "Want me to show you how well I kiss?" He wagged his eyebrows at her.

Willow's face flushed. "No! Gross! I'd probably have to teach you anyway." She stepped back and hugged herself. Her face scrunched up like she smelled a used diaper.

"You also got the boxers wrong. I go commando. Makes the morphing easier with less clothing. In fact, who's to say if I'm wearing any actual clothing right now?"

"Ewww!" Willow shoved him further away from her and started running back to the dorms.

"But I would totally sport only those white boxers with the hearts if that's what you're into," Devon teased, chasing after her. "And when should I expect those make-out lessons?"

"Hate you, Devon!" She playfully called back.

"You love me," he laughed.

------------------------------

The Set-up: 

Devon returned to the X-Men after spending two years with The Brotherhood of Mutants. Until the X-Men can decide if they can trust him, Devon is in a holding cell hidden under the Xavier Institute. Willow, feeling conflicted on the return of her former best friend and crush, decided to visit Devon to get some answers of her own. The answer she got was that he wasn't part of the attack on the Xavier Institute; he didn't even know about it until months later, and he grieved the presumed loss of his friends. He had every intention of simply infiltrating The Brotherhood and coming back to the X-Men as a spy to prove his worth to the X-Men. This is a sample from the larger story “Please, Let Me Explain” co-authored by me and Devon's creator Ronoxym.

Word Count: 843

- Can't You Be The Bad Guy? -

She peeked over her shoulder and back at Devon before turning fully around. "I saw what you did in the Danger Room. I was so intrigued by the idea of your first DR run that I made sure to set up shop in the observation deck. I watched the whole thing: wandering the desert, saving Penny, getting knocked out, waking up in what you thought was the infirmary before being convinced that you were going on an actual mission, going up against The Brotherhood again, and taking out Lookout once Pyro offered you info on your parents. It was a mean trick, but it seemed to seal your coffin well enough."

"I really wish you hadn't seen that." He shied away, ashamed at his behavior, but also growing angry at the reminder of the cruel misdirection. That session had ruined his life.

"Yeah, well, I did. I was so mad. I hadn't known you for long, but I thought I knew you pretty well. Even after the thing with Marge in the DR, I tried to come up with an explanation. But then you flee before the place blows? You had betrayed us to The Brotherhood and clearly didn't care about us any longer. My life for the past two years was hating you to no end. Vowing that I'd avenge Hedge. That I'd get payback for the other three lives you took. So, tell me, Devon, if you are as innocent as you claim, how doesn't that make the last two years of my life worse?"

Devon looked bewildered by her question. He had figured that being innocent would always make things better, not worse. Willow didn't miss a beat in informing him otherwise.

"Don't you get it? I just spent the past two years of my life hating you! Despising you! Having nightmares about you! I had a sickening sense of betrayal whenever I thought about you - even the few good times we had. I had emotional breakdowns and loathed my best friend for the past two years over a misunderstanding? That's supposed to cheer me up? I blamed you for four deaths you had nothing to do with? That's supposed to lift my spirits? Do you realize how much I put myself through because I thought I was the one who drove you to it? I mean, I was the one who convinced you to try out the DR in the first place! If I hadn't suggested it to Wolverine then maybe you wouldn't have left. Now knowing that I just might be right about that fact is supposed to perk me up?"

She started screaming at him as she wept. "The amount of time I wasted hating my best friend. The amount of energy I dedicated to hardening my heart to you. The days of self-loathing because I thought I put you up to it, or because - to this day – I'm still pissed off at Cyclops for tricking you like that! You were the enemy! Cyclops was right about you, and he was justified in testing you in the DR instead of letting you betray us in the field. Yet I still hated him for such a horrible ploy. Then I felt guilty for siding with a foe instead of a professor."

She hung her head and her hair spilled from behind her ears, hiding her right eye. It was manic whenever Trish's hair fell into her face, but it was sweet and a bit heart-wrenching when Willow's silvery-white locks drifted into hers. Devon just wanted to brush them away from her eyes, and help dry her tears. It pained him to the core that he caused her such grief.

Her voice cracked as she breathed out the next sentence. "It's just easier on me if you really were the bad guy. So, just- can you just give me that?"

Devon had no clue how to respond. They stood in silence for a few minutes - Devon staring at Willow as she focused on her own feet - before she finally ran out of the room. Mirroring Devon when he left the institute two years prior, Willow didn't bother to look back or say goodbye.

------------------------------

The Set-up: Nyssa, Devon, and Zeke just defected to the X-Men from The Brotherhood. Willow has not taken kindly to the trio, and is particularly harsh with Devon. Nyssa, Devon's unofficial girlfriend, decides to take it upon herself to get Willow to chill. This story is a companion piece to X-Future.

Word Count: 1613

 - It Is So On! -

Willow sighed and flopped on to her bed. "What do ya want, Nys?"

The blonde slammed the door closed behind her. "We need to talk about Devon."

Willow squeezed her eyes closed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "No, we don't. We really, really don't."

"Yes, we do." Nys' voice was firm, like a scolding school teacher. "Or at the very least you're going to hear what I have to say."

Willow opened one eye to glance over at Nys. The girl had a stubborn determination. Willow could already tell that she was in a losing battle. She closed her eyes and waved Nys on.

"You need to lay off him," Nys demanded.

Willow loudly drew in a hissy breath. On the loud exhale she rebutted, "How about nope?" She then rolled off her bed and walked over to her desk. "Well, that was fun. Buh-bye now."

Nys bit the inside of her cheeks and folded her arms. "Are you this hostile to everyone?"

Willow swung out her leg as she pivoted on her opposite heel, and then gracefully landed in her chair. "Only potential threats," she said matter-of-factly. "Ya know, like former members of an organization that already blew up this school once."

Nys stormed over to the desk. "That's not fair! First of all, none of us had anything to do with that! We weren't even members back then. Secondly, The Brotherhood had lied to us and kept us in the dark the entire time we were with them. None of us are actually bad people."

Willow cocked an eyebrow. She carefully watched as Nys took a few steps back and sank on to the bed. The blonde's harshness melted as she slumped on the soft surface.

"Look." For the first time Nys' voice was soft and a bit defeated as she studied her woven fingers. "Zeke is a bit simple minded, but he's really just a huge teddy bear. He's devoted and loyal as long as you treat him well, and he really just wants to be a good person. He's actually pretty devastated that he was part of a terrorist group. Well, we all are, honestly. Anyway, Zeke doesn't deserve you or anyone else here harassing him about his past."

"Yeah, okay, don't pick on the humanoid St. Bernard. Whatever." Willow made a display of yawning before she checked her desk clock. "Weren't you invading my room in order to talk to me about the Traitor Supreme?"

Nys vaulted off Willow's bed and got up in the younger girl's face. "Never ever refer to him like that!" she snarled.

Willow leaned back and shot her finger up at Nys. "Ah, there we are. Full circle back to rage. Fascinating how that works." She crossed her legs, and again casually waved for Nys to continue. "Well, if I have to hear this, can you at least move it along?"

"Move it along? Move it along! Are you kidding me right now?" Nys slammed her hand on the desk beside Willow. "Listen up, bitch, and listen carefully. You want this short? I'll make it simple for you then. Leave. Us. Alone. Easy enough for you?"

Willow scoffed and pivoted her chair so she had space to stand up. Nys caught the armrest and swung the chair back to center Willow on her. Holding firmly to each side of the chair, Nys leaned in close. "Don't mess with me, skank."

"Excuse me?" Willow knitted her eyebrows in disbelief and shifted her weight to one side, ready to sweep kick Nys away from her if need be.

"Don't pick on Zeke," Nys continued completely undeterred. "And certainly do not harass Devon. Don't be mean to him. Don't treat him harshly. Don't call him names. And never call him a traitor again! You would be lucky to have a loyal friend like him!"

"Loyal?" Willow's voice cracked as it was torn between yelling and laughing. Her face hardened. In a quick movement she simultaneously shoved Nys away from her and stood up fast enough to kick the chair behind her. "Now listen up here, sweetheart." She spat out the last word as if it were a curse. "I already had Devon as a friend, and let me tell you, it was far from lucky. Plus, he was about as loyal as a pet tiger. So it's time for you to sit down and listen to Teacher."

Nys rolled her shoulders and took a step back so her nose wasn't practically brushing Willow's. The silver-haired girl clenched her jaw as she growled through her teeth. "That jerk caused nothing but chaos when he left. And I certainly didn't feel his loyalty, or feel lucky to have been his friend. You want to know what I did feel? I felt lost. Betrayed. Hatred. So, you can keep him as a friend. 'Cuz I certainly don't want it."

The blonde shifted, gently tilting her head and calculating. "You liked him," she finally guessed after a few heartbeats.

"What?" Willow stiffened her back and glowered.

Nys struggled to keep the smile from tugging on her lips. "You did, didn't you?" She scanned her adversary as she softened her stance. "That's why you're so hard on him. He broke your heart when he left."

The belly laugh filled the room. Hugging her stomach, Willow snorted before she was able to recompose herself. She held up her hand apologetically as she took deep breaths to calm the giggles. "I'm sorry, but Devon? Devon St. James? That punk kid? Break my heart?" She guffawed and quickly muffled it with a hand. "Yeah, alright, ya got me. He intrigued me a little, and I may have thought he was kinda cute. That's it." She fought against smiling and it was killing her cheeks. "Broke my heart. You're so cute. Look, I was with someone then, and I'm with someone now. I wouldn't want Devon St. James ever. Hate to break it to ya." Willow winked at Nys and giggled a bit more.

"Oh, right, dating someone." Nys stared at a patch of wall just past Willow's shoulder. Her voice was distant as she tried to grab at a passing memory. "That Chayse guy, right?"

Half of Willow's face pulled up in a smile as she cocked a hip. "Yeah. Chayse. Someone way better than that runaway douchebag. Yet another reason your little Don Juan scenario would never happen."

Nys' eyes bore down on Willow for yet again disrespecting Devon. Taking a couple long breaths, she calmed herself. Something about the younger girl seemed a bit off balance since it was suggested that she had a crush on Devon; maybe even loved him. Nys decided to take a stab in the dark: that the images Lia had seen during their battle were at least based on truth. "This oh-so-fantastic Chayse guy, he was with that Lia girl before, am I right?"

Willow's chuckles quickly died. She scowled and again stiffened her back. "Watch it."

"Yeah, I think I heard that the two of them were actually a cute couple for a while. Then you stole him away from her with your slutty feminine wiles." Nys smirked and her eyes twinkled.

"Listen here, Tinkerbell," Willow shot forward to get right in Nys' face. She poked the girl in the shoulder to accentuate her point. "Don't go around talking about shit you know nothing about."

Nys casually gave a sideways glance at Willow's poking. As if swatting a fly, she brushed the younger girl's hand away. "I also heard something about you creating unnecessary chaos between that Irish couple."

Willow gave Nys a shove. "I told you to stop."

Nys stumbled back and landed on Willow's bed. She quickly crossed her legs and leaned back as if she had intended to sit down anyway. "Seems to me you enjoy causing needless drama among happy couples."

The slap echoed throughout the room. Nys gripped the side of her face, knowing a handprint would show up in due time. Willow remained in the follow through of her swing. Her breaths were slow but heavy. "I said," Willow growled, "stop it."

Nys pushed Willow out of the way so she could stand up. The two stared each other down for a good minute. Nys was the one who finally broke the silence. "Listen, bitch, I don't care if you despise Devon or love him. He's mine and you're not going to cause drama between us. Try all you want, but keep in mind that I have my own way of getting into someone's head." Glaring, Nys released some of her pheromones and Willow became lightheaded.

After a little wobbling, Willow allowed herself to collapse on to her bed. Nys smirked and let up on her powers. "Just a little taste. You'll be fine in a minute or two. Open the window to help that along." She walked over to the door and stopped with it half open. "Trust me, mess with Devon anymore and I'll make it ten times worse for you."

Nys slammed the door behind her when she left. Right on cue, Willow's eyes refocused. She stared down her bedroom door and imagined the blonde that just left. Her fingers still tingled from slapping the girl. Willow studied them before clenching her hand in to a fist. "Challenge accepted, Nys. Challenge accepted."

------------------------------

The Set-Up: The villain Agony managed to force Willow onto a weird sub-set of the Astral Plane in order for the two of them to battle. After a few scuffles, Agony drops some blood onto the “ground” of their battle field, and “crew” three copies of herself. Willow, using her illusion ability, did the same: creating 3 copies of herself. During the four-on-four battle, Agony circled the Willows, who are grouped together with their backs to each other. The Agonies formed scythes in each of their hands, meanwhile, Willow had her and her copies form daggers and shields. This is an adaptation of an actual X-Future role play scene

Word Count: 1358

 - I am a Badass -

Boy, did I screw myself over by not keeping one hand free. I couldn't vault myself like I normally would as Agony and her copies each swiped at us with their scythes. The best I could do was an aerial spin.

I jumped up, pulled in as tight as I could with the dagger and shield, and spun a bit so I was above the high blade. I came down just as Agony's clone's scythe finished it's swing. I managed to land on the blade and push it down to the ground. My illusionary selves mimicked me as we all land on the scythes and pin them to the ground. Unfortunately, I don't know if it was my clones or Agony's that were out of sync, but the duplicate behind me had her left shin badly sliced on her landing. Her balance off, she missed pinning the scythe of her Agony, and she nearly took out the Willow to my right.

My focus shifted for a half-second as I watched the girls tumble into each other. I made a mental note to watch my back for the free scythe. Lowering my weight to make sure the scythe I was standing on was pinned, I smirked at the Agony in front of me, my dagger out towards her throat.

“Your move, Kaiba.” I mocked.

Agony grinned and took a step forward, driving my dagger through her neck. Before I could register that she was obviously one of Agony's illusionary duplicates, blue “blood” sprayed out of the woman's neck; coating me. I guarded my face with the shield, and took an instinctive step back.

I wasn't pinning her scythe any longer, but it doesn't seem to matter as the injured Agony dropped to the ground and 'died.' The other two illusionary Agonys vanished as well, leaving my copies dazed as their fighting partners disappeared. Regaining our bearings, my illusionary clones and I all turn to the real Agony.

She didn't seem to care about her scythe any longer, dropping it to the ground, and letting the psy energy dissolve back into the atmosphere. Instead, Agony threw back her head and laughed.

Even with the shield, the spray had come at me too fast to block it all. I still had some of it on my face and shoulders. I kept my eyes on Agony as I tried to wipe the blood off me. The second I touched the blue goop it started to glow. Its pulsating felt like my own heartbeat pushing through my skin.

“What the hell!?” I chanced looking away from Agony for a moment as I inspected the damage. The pulsating blue blood glowed brighter. Startled, I tossed my shield to the side, and frantically attempted to brush the liquid off at all. I only managed to spread it onto my clean hand, and then down my unsoiled arms. No matter what, the blood won't clean off; like it was attached to me now. My hurried swipes became noticeably slower, and my head grew heavy, as if I were tranquilized. I dropped to my knees, and my head swayed and bobbled as I struggled to stay alert. My only thought was Seriously? This is how I'm going out?

“You. Bitch.” I coughed out; dropping onto my hands as well.

"Soon you will be fully paralyzed, then I'll have you at my mercy." Agony smirked as she folded her arms across her chest, waiting for the inevitable.

My three duplicates stared at me as I collapsed, completely baffled. Morons. That's when I figured that maybe them being dumbfounded was actually in my favor. Agony doesn't seem to be paying much attention to them anymore.

Go! I mentally whispered to them. Move! Help!

I was frozen; pinned to the floor. My body wouldn't move.

Agony took a step towards me, and held out her hand. The weird blue blood finally peeled off of me like liquid metal being pulled by a magnet in Agony's hand. As it pooled on her palm, it solidified into a crystalline dagger.

Help, I plead once more to my illusions. They had to be listening to me, right? Agony kneeled down in front of me, pulled her arm back, and as she swung her arm down to plunge the dagger into my back, my clones finally leapt at her.

“What the hell?” Agony bellowed as my illusionary duplicates pinned her in place, pulling back on the hand with the dagger. “How are your petty illusions moving on their own?” She struggled for a few seconds before smiling down at me. “No matter. This won't hold me for long.” She closed her eyes, relaxed her struggle slightly, and concentrated on her breathing.

Moving on their own? It didn't make sense to me that she'd be so confused by that fact. Oh, right! Her illusions moved completely in unison with her! They could only mirror. She can't create autonomous clones!

I made a mental note to use that fact against her, assuming I survived long enough for that knowledge to prove useful.

“They're not real!” Agony's voice squeaked with a twinge of pain as she started struggling harder against my duplicates again. “They are not real!” She screamed.

Oh, shit! That was it. Agony knew my weakness. Disbelieving in my illusions dispelled them. The only things literally holding her back from killing me would be gone any second now. I was doomed. I clenched my eyes closed and focused on getting my body to move.

Move! Move! Damn it, move your big toe! It worked for Uma Thurman in Kill Bill! Now do it!

“They are not real!” Agony yelled again. Her eyes flew open and stared down her attackers. “You are not real! What is going on? Why are you still here?”

Opening my eyes, I struggled to arch my neck to see. All three illusions truly were still fighting back against Agony as she frantically squirmed against them. I was clueless as to how that was possible. Was there some part of her brain that sincerely believed the clones were there? Was that why she couldn't dispel them?

That was when my eye caught the shin of the copy that was hit by the scythe earlier. Blood was trickling down her leg.

Holy shit! I couldn't believe what I was seeing. They're real? They're really real? Oh. Em. Gee! I'm so friggen hard core!

The blood trickling down my illusion's shin had a purple hint to it. Same as the shading of the actual Astral Plane. That's when I truly realized what happened. The damn things were more psi-weapons! Just in human form! You can't dispel psi-weapons!

I made another mental note: when I'm on the astral plane, any illusion I create is a friggen psi-weapon!

My humanoid psi-friggen-weapons pulled harder back on Agony.

“Get off me! You're not real! You're not supposed to be here anymore! How are you still here?” Agony twisted more against the clones, panic starting to draw onto her face.

The copy that had Agony's wrist yanked harder on her hand to make Agony's grip loosen. My copy leaned in close to Agony's ear.

“We're all still here-” the clone said.

“-because I am-” continued the clone yanking on Agony's shoulders to bend her arms back away from me.

“-a mother-effing badass!” the injured duplicate finished, then sucker-punched Agony in the gut.

------------------------------

The Set-Up: Willow unintentionally finds Lia hiding in the community bathroom. Lia blames herself for Annika/Judgment's possible death, as well as Devon's death (although technically, he's still alive), and Liam's. This is an adaptation of an actual X-Future role play scene.

Word Count: 1390

 - Check the Ego - 

“Oh, hun, no.” Willow dropped to her knees in front of Lia, who was curled up on the floor, hugging her legs. Willow placed her hands on Lia's to try to get her attention. “No, none of that is your fault. None of it! Do you hear me? You were fifteen when Annika left. What could you have possibly done? As for a last week? She was trying to kill you! You did what you had to in order to survive. If she is dead, it's her fault, not yours!” Willow moved her hands to Lia's face, and pulled her head up so Lia was looking in Willow's eyes.

“And both times Devon left were his own fault. He was the one that didn't want to include us. How could you possibly think you were responsible for that moron's actions? As for Liam? From what I gathered, you weren't anywhere near him. Know who was? That asshole Roscoe. Ya know, the guy who pretended to be Liam's BFF only to literally stab him in the back? Why? Why do you take all of this on? It's not your fault!”

Lia choked down tears in a sobbing hiccup. With the heel of her hand, she blotted away the few drops that pooled in her eyes. Despite Willow still holding her face, Lia refused to look in her friend's eyes, looking down to her arms instead.

“I-I dunno. I dunno why I feel guilty. Why do I feel guilty? What's wrong with me? I- I just can't help but feel like I failed, like I could have done something, like I could have done more. If only I could have gotten through to them. If I were better at understanding people. If I were better at my own powers. But I just keep failing. I keep proving to the world that it got left behind an inferior model. And-” Lia's eyes shoot up to meet Willow's. Her hands whipped to cover her mouth, a loud gasp attempting to suck up the next sentence back into her throat.

Willow's eyes slowly widened as realization washed over her. Abruptly, she ripped her hands away from Lia's face as Willow sprung up to tower over her.

“You're not your mom!” Willow shouted, wildly gesturing, uncaring that Lia's father was waiting for her just outside the bathroom door. He needed to hear this ridiculousness too. “Christ, girl, lower your ego a bit, huh? Is that really what this is all about?”

Lia gasped again at Willow's harsh words, glaring a little at her supposed friend. Willow didn't care, she hoped she was pissing Lia off; make up for how pissed off Lia just made her. “Seriously. Everyone looks at poor, little, emo Lia whining about how useless she is, and we all think 'Why does she have such low self esteem?' I should have known better. I should have known this whole thing was actually because your ego is way too big!”

Lia shifted awkwardly on the bathroom floor tiles, but Willow stepped closer so Lia had no room to rise; to move away from hearing this truth.

“Lia, you have no control over the world. You're not that powerful; you'll never be that powerful, so dial it down, 'kay? The world doesn't revolve around you. These bad things aren't some weird karma directed at you. The world isn't mad at you for not being your mom. Christ, not even your mom was that important to the world. So, come on, get over yourself. You are you. You are as good as you can be; you train hard for that. Learn from your downfalls and improve. Don't mope. Don't cry in your emo corner. No one else cares. No one else blames you. So stop inflating your ego thinking that everyone depends on you. You're not anyone's mom here, you're not even your own mom. So knock it off!”

Willow bent down to grab Lia's hand, and pulled her to her feet. Before Lia could catch her bearings, Willow had her in a tight embrace.

In a softer tone, Willow muttered one last thought in Lia's ear. “So, you gonna go back out in the world and learn? Or are you gonna stay in here and hide some more? Because I still need a shower, and Chayse is probably wondering were the hell I am.” Willow leaned away from Lia and gave her a gentle smile. Patting Lia on the cheek, Willow gathered up her supplies and headed towards the shower stalls.

Lia sniffled, her head hung. Tears spilled over this time, and she didn't bother attempting to wipe them away. “What's the point? You said it yourself, no one depends on me. Probably because they can't trust that I can do any good. What's the point of staying here to learn any more? I'm no hero. I can't help anyone here.”

The tiles squeaked as Willow skidded to a halt. Rage filled her face as she whipped around and stormed back over to Lia.

“Seriously?” Willow screamed in Lia's face, mere inches from her roommate's nose. She then leaned back and crossed her arms, her hip cocked as Willow stared Lia down. “Seriously. Alright. Fine. We're doing this then. Whatever. Sure. Sure, you're useless. You haven't saved anyone. Sure. Ignore the fact that it was because of you that Devon, Nyssa, and Zeke joined the team in the first place. But nope. You don't reach anyone.” Willow smacked her lips to resist smacking Lia. “Ignore the fact that, for the limited time Lincoln was here, he seemed the most calm and at peace whenever he was around you. Nope. You're useless. Right.” Willow took a step away from Lia, rolled her shoulders, and gave up trying to keep her voice low. “We'll also forget that we were able to capture Lighter in the first place because you stopped her single-handedly from turning all of us into fried chicken.” She was waving her arms wildly now, pacing in front of Lia like a lioness cutting off a gazelle's retreat. “Chayse tries to be better not because his parents berate him, but because you do. Ripley found an anchor here - excuse the pun - and rejoined society because of you.” Willow roughly poked Lia in the shoulder before throwing up her hands over her head. “But, nope. Nope. You are useless. No one needs you here. You're just wasting everyone's time. Sure. Sounds about right.”

Willow shook her head and stomped over to the bathroom door. She held it open and motioned to Lia's father standing guard in the hallway.

“Your dad's right here. Do you want to tell him that you want to move back to your old home, or should I? Because I sure would hate for my time to be further wasted by you,” she snapped out sarcastically.

Concerned, Jamie timidly poked his head through the community bathroom door, and glanced over at his daughter. “Lia? Baby, you okay? What's going on between you two?”

“Oh, nothing much, Mr. Madrox,” Willow spat out as she glared over her shoulder at Lia, “just your daughter whining again because she's not a 'hero,' which apparently everyone else in this school is. Cuz, ya know, I've stopped tons of arch villains myself. Same with Crystal, and Tyler, and Colette, and Alister, and Sasha, and dozens more. Yup. We're all big bad superheroes ready to join up with SHIELD and the Avengers; leaving her behind.” She fully turned and screamed back into the bathroom. “Right, Lia? So, what's the point in staying here? Lord, it's all or nothing with your ego, isn't it?” Willow shook her head, and shoved the bathroom door as open as it would go before storming out.

“Ya know what,” Willow muttered over her shoulder, “Screw the shower. It could never clean this grime off me anyway. Such bullshit.” A few stomps down the corridor, Willow pivoted and shouted back to the bathroom. “Just let me know where I'm shipping your shit!” Spinning on her heel, Willow stormed back to her bedroom.

------------------------------

WOW! There... was... a lot of Devon in there... >_> Hubby doesn’t really write anything terribly in-depth, so most of the Willow/Chayse role play is “off-screen”, things like “They go on a trip to Japan for a couple of weeks” or “They nurse each other back to health after a tough battle” or “He takes her to a secluded place for a picnic of Cajun food he made himself.”

Ronoxym, on the other hand, did a LOT of dialog-focused role play with Willow, and he was the one who came up with the concept for “Please, Let Me Explain” so I guess it makes sense that most of my Willow examples center around Devon....

Anyway, one last post to go! Who’s ready to see some fun wrestling entrance videos?

[topurify]

                                                    THEORY NOTES.    .  .  . THAT’S PRACTICAL. 

the batter’s world view.

It’s abundantly clear that the Batter himself has some questionable views and morals but a lot can be discovered from the gameplay about this. The most telling moment to me in the beginning of the game is the response that the Batter has to Dedan, and how after one interaction he witnesses he comes to the conclusion that Dedan is “evil” and must be purified. This is laughable to us as the player because it’s so extreme for one little interaction, as an adult you realize that things are more complex than one view on things so judging someone’s entire character on one bad day or interaction is incredibly childish and unfair. Notice also how I said childish, as this is deliberate. It’s clear that in many aspects the Batter’s view is black and white, this is symbolically pushed through the black and white color schemes of all the characters in the game. Perhaps this was a stylistic choice but in my eyes this was a very intentional choice that foreshadowed what was to come.

In terms of the Batter, his viewpoint is the same as Hugo’s in a lot of ways. Why? Because Hugo controls this world, he is the one who created it all, who made the Batter and the Queen and everything in the world there and his childish, black and white view on things is reflected in the toxic worlds of OFF. From sugar being bad and getting people addicted, to judging someone entirely off of one interaction. So, how does this reflect on the Batter’s worldview specifically, as he is clearly based off of Hugo’s father? There seems to be one morally shakey view that covers nearly all of the Batter’s choices and perspectives.

A world that is suffering is better destroyed than left to rot. Sacrifice it all for the chance of a new beginning. Even at his own expense. That does not mean he doesn’t feel guilt and pain from what he and the puppeteer did, but because of the Queen’s lack of care and neglect (as mentioned in the ending of the game) the child was pushed to the edge and therefore the Batter was “forced” to take action.

I personally view this as symbolism for the real-life interactions of Hugo’s mother and father. His mother was kind and loving but neglectful, she gave him what he wanted but not what he needed and his father was the opposite. He focused on what he needed and wanted to give him what he wanted but knew he couldn’t live like a “normal kid” because of his illness. So he had to be strict. When his mother had him, she neglected his needs because she wanted him to live as much life as he could, to be as happy as he could before he died. Unfortunately, because of this, Hugo’s health declined rapidly until his father eventually managed to get Hugo back from his mother and get full custody. Being a child, Hugo, of course, reacted negatively and viewed his father as destroying his life and effectively killing him.

hugo.

The relationship the Batter has with Hugo is often viewed as the Batter being the father and Hugo being the son and in some way it is. However, Hugo made the Batter, quite literally created him in the image of his father. Notice though that the views of their relationships are different depending on the Queen’s view and the Batter’s. The Queen views Hugo as her child, while Batter in the final fight refers to the area as “the cradel of my father” meaning he does not view the same relationship but rather views Hugo as the creator and technical father of him who was neglected and therefore pushing the Batter into play.

It also should be noted that if the Batter is aware of the player, and the one who made him, then that means he would be aware of the man he was built off of and what Hugo thinks of him. Hugo had literally cast him into nothingness until the Batter gained his puppeteer and left to complete his mission.

the rotting world.

The world of OFF, though colorful and interesting, is no doubt a very dystopian future type of thing. From the behavior, views, and society of the Elsen themselves as seen from some official art descriptions by Mortis Ghost

Once again in terms of our world, this view is very childish and simplistic as well as inaccurate. However, for the Elsen this is true and is very much real. On top of this the “Guardians” of the zones themselves have grown corrupted and cruel to the individuals in their zones and the Queen has done little to correct this.

In a way, the entirety of the Batter’s mission was a mercy kill of sorts. Which is why morally the game itself is confusing and frustrating. The morally questionable actions and choices made are enough to make anyone stop to ponder if what they were doing was right or wrong and that’s precisely what the ending did. It signified the reflection of the Batter and The Queen and the rotting world onto the real-life counterparts of Hugo’s father, mother and the world he was living in before his father either took him away or had to decide to pull the plug. ( Hence the name of the game, and the ending )

the blame.

So who is to blame for what was done, was it the puppeteer, the puppet, the creator? The only blame that can be said for the world Hugo made would be the Puppeteer and The Batter, in the real world, it would be Hugo’s mother. The Batter knew what he had to do, he knew that he would be despised as the villain when the Puppeteer was assigned to him and he set out to complete his mission, but he did what he had to do anyway. The reason I say the Puppeteer was also to blame, despite the lack of understanding until the ending is that the Puppeteers (or players) stayed. As Zachary continuously reiterated, this is all a game, no one was making us finish playing it except our own interest and the Batter knows this. He knows full well that the player could leave at any time, refuse to finish the game, refuse to fight. But we all did anyway. Whether we clicked auto or not, we still watched what happened and allowed it to occur, until the ending decision was made. In fact, I think that’s why it was made so clear to us that we were playing a video game, so we would know that we were in fact guilty of the same “crimes” the Batter was. I say it like that because it’s honestly such a morally challenging thing to pick apart and judge when it comes down to it, and it really depends on the world view you have that determines your stances on what happened in the game and all the purifying done.

The Puppeteer cannot exist without the Batter and vice versa, they were tied together cosmically built for each other for this story, and there is no running out on your own story.

[thatfunkylesbianwriter]

Soft - DBH

This is a Good one, only slight angst lol. Its based on one of my favorite poems by John Keats

AO3

Pairing: Markus/Simon

Words: 1859

Warnings: Simon has anxiety 

------

If you ask around New Jericho, you’ll learn that people found Markus to be the image of strength and will. If you dug a little more, they’d also say he was surprisingly gentle. His words never cut or pushed them around, they were guiding nudges towards the right direction that inspired people to do the best they could and become the best version of themselves.

It wasn’t surprising that Simon tended to gravitate to the android leader. The caretaker android was gentle in words and actions, but his self-doubt clouded any intention of making a better, safer life for the androids that came to Jericho when it was young. He hated himself for it, but the risk of setting up his people up to fail was too much. When Markus arrived, everything changed. He gave off this bright aura that made Simon brave. He wanted to take action with the android, help him in his journey to free their people. The old leader dared to say that he had hope for the future of his people, despite the cold and cruel world deviants were born into.

That was months ago and Simon looked on a new world for androids and humans with a warm heart. He had helped Markus achieve what he one time called impossible and went through hell for it. If you ask him, he’d do it again in a heartbeat for his leader.

That determination and undying loyalty arose one day when Markus called him, asking for his company. These meetings weren’t strange for the two androids; in fact, Simon always looked forward to them. Markus always had something to do with human officials and politics, effectively taking him away from the little group they’d formed at Jericho.

It was fall again as Simon walked through the downtown streets of Detroit, the city quiet and still. Some humans had come back to stay in the city, but it was no longer the bustling and chaotic metropolis that it once was. Simon found he liked it this way better, the peace and calm.

As he approached his destination, he could see Markus’s figure standing tall in the plaza. Simon was overtaken for just a moment by his thirium pump regulator as it started to work faster, stopping just a few yards away. This wasn’t strange, either, for the android when he was with the leader; before he called the causes >--/admiration/--< and underlying >--/fear/--< when the Revolution was happening. Now, >--/nervousness/--< and something much warmer caused Simon’s regulator to speed up and make his systems whirl and fidget while he was around Markus.

Once the warning in his system passed, Simon continued on his way towards his friend—

>--/error/--/...searching.../--/companion/--<

Markus probably sensed someone approaching him as he turned around to face him with a smile broad as the sky. Every single time the two androids saw each other, they hugged, and Simon lived for these moments.

>--/Security/--/Relief/--/Joy/--/Lo/--/error/--<

Markus’s hug might have been brief but it lingered on Simon’s skin, ghosting his shoulders with static electricity, as they started to walk side by side. The leader might have been a man of few words to some, always contemplating what he said next, but with the caretaker android, he could literally not shut up.

He talked about anything and everything with Simon, new laws that were in pending for android rights, the turbulent effects of the environment, paintings and sculptures he was planning, even the various animals and pets he had the pleasure of meeting. His words were colorful and excited, the mismatched eyes bright in the rising sunlight. To Simon, he was the most… >--/...searching.../--/exquisite/--< person he had ever met.

“How have you been, Simon? I feel like I haven’t talked to you in ages,” Markus was beaming at the android and Simon’s hands twitched at how he said his name with such fondness.

>--/error/--/ve/--<

They sat on a park bench, Simon, with his hands in his lap, and hyper-aware of the right hand that rested across the back of the seat from Markus and near the middle of his shoulder blades with his left foot propped up on his knee. The android rarely sat so casually; his reputation and image meant a great deal to him if he was to be the leader of all androids. A part of Simon burned with satisfaction that Markus was comfortable enough to relax in his presence. But in this close proximity, his pump regulator picked back up again and caused the poor android to wring his hands and pick at the cuff of his jacket sleeve.

“Good, good,” he managed to say, thirium moving fast and hot in his veins, “I’ve been, um, reading… books.”

Markus gave him a look and replied with a teasing voice, “Books, you say? They must be very interesting, Simon.”

The android let out a shaky breath and forced out a cough to cover it up, flicking his eyes away from his companion’s smiling face. It was like he was intentionally trying to make Simon overheat with how he said his name like he was the only one in the world that actually mattered.

“Yes! Uh, I mean yes, ” Simon coughed again and looked to the trees above him and hoped their ways of rooting into the earth would help him stay grounded, “Josh recommended some poetry books to me and I find the Romantics to be the most interesting so far.”

Markus hummed in approval and something swelled within Simon, >--/L--/error/--ve/--<. “I used to read a selection of them to Carl when he was painting in his workshop, especially when he was doing nature scenes. Please, tell me, who’s your favorite so far?”

The question made him retreat into his mind and search the files of poetry that he kept saved, trying to find the right one. In reality, Simon had spent hours upon hours just reading in the library because the humans were right, there was nothing like holding a real book in your hands. He would start in the morning and by night, he’d be surrounded by a fortress of stacked books of various lengths and genre. When Josh did recommend the selected poems of Romantics that he once taught in his classroom, Simon could not stop going through the volumes he could find and resources online. He was nose deep in a massive collection of William Blake in lieu of his daily cleaning ritual.

>--/...searching.../--/file located/--<

Before saying anything, Simon took his counterpart in little by little. Markus was tilted towards Simon now, his knee coming up on the bench and just barely touching the side of his thigh with the leg stretched out. Hip to shoulder, neck to chin, lips to nose, Simon slid his eyes along the android until he reached his eyes, daring to look his green one.

>--/beautiful/--/lovely/--/always/--/always him/--<

He fidgeted, a lump catching in his throat. Simon had waited too long for this moment, self-doubt had sown the idea that his bond with Markus was only that of comradery in a time of panic. That Markus couldn’t look at him without remembering all those deviants that died for the cause and was left with a weak android he had to visit from time to time out of guilt. These thoughts had played with Simon’s head for months and he couldn’t take it anymore, couldn’t believe them with Markus looking at him with undivided attention.

>--/love/----/i love i love i love/--/him/--/i love him/--/i love him/--/i love him/--<

Holding out a hand, Simon felt the familiar burn of bravery pushed his words forth, “I’d rather show you, if that’s alright?”

Something flashed across the android’s face, too fast for Simon to really understand it. The hand that rested behind him rose, brushing ever so slightly against the back of his neck, before coming in front of the two men. As their hands approached, the synthetic skin retreated and started to glow a faint blue, getting brighter and brighter as they closed the distance-

<<--/Markus/--/surprise/--/amusement/--/fondness/-->>

Simon couldn’t breath; he was drowning in him, falling deeper into that beautiful mind. Markus changed his grip on his companion’s hand, tucking Simon’s hand into his own and ran soothing circles over the knuckles. <<--/Encouragement/-->> passed from Markus and all Simon could do was focus on their conjoined hands as he accessed the file.

>>--/Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art— Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night/--<< >>--/And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,/--<<

The android leader’s eyes opened wide, <<--/disbelief/-->>, and Simon dared not to look at him as his feelings were finally laid bare, >>--/longing/--/anxiety/--/fear/--<<

>>--/The moving waters at their priestlike task Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,/--<< >>--/Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—/--<<

He felt Markus’s hand shift again, now intertwining their fingers as he brought them to his lips in a gentle press, earning a low groan from Simon as his other hand gripped onto the bench seat like his life depended on it.

>>--/No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable, Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,/--<< >>--/To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,/--<<

Emotions were passed rapidly between them like lovers sending letters; ><--/heat/--/devotion/--/hunger/--/rapture/--/desire/--/love/--/love/--/LOVE/--><

>>--/Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,/--<< >>--/And so live ever—or else swoon to death./--<<

The file was swept away as the two androids collided, kissing frantically with a hand that wound through blonde hair to keep him in place and another grasping wildly at the leader’s shoulders to get closer. It was dizzying as Markus continued to kiss him with a crushing force and holding him so tightly that Simon felt like he was going to burst. ><--/Love/-->< kept bouncing back a forth and he could’ve died happy right then in his companion’s arms.

Markus thought different once warnings of overheating and stress overload were imminent passed between them. His partner was too disoriented to do anything about it, the fact that Markus was still in his head, still wanting him, clouded any rational thought or action. Just as fast as it started, Markus pulled away and disconnected, leaving Simon panting and gripping tightly on his shoulder. It took a minute for Simon’s processors to cool down and his pump regulator to take a step down as Markus rubbed soothing circles into his hand and forearm.

Markus’s eyes were half-lidded and burning into Simon’s as he held the android’s face, making the android’s pump regulator jump at the sight, “How long?”

“Since the beginning.”

And damned were the consequences as Markus reached in again and caught Simon’s lips with his own. These kisses were slow, coaxing Simon to relax his grip until he practically lounged in his companion’s arms.

Yes, the leader of New Jericho was very a gentle man, but everyone knew he was especially so with the very soft and quiet Simon.

[rohwajeong]

Fragments of artistic thoughts on managerial

LEE Sunyoung (Art critic)

In the art world, where much collaboration occurs in the form of exhibitions, the collaborative group RohwaJeong is well known as a unified persona. It almost feels awkward to find out each member’s name. RohwaJeong is a fictional character whose gender-neutral name is a combination of the names of a male and a female artist, JEONG Hyunseok and NOH Yunhee. These two artists, who are the same age of 35, have known each other from their early twenties until the present. However, they claim that working collaboratively does not mean twice the efficiency. In fact, it takes more time to work together, even though each member has his or her own strengths. In other words, it requires a considerable amount of effort to adjust and compromise to each other’s differences in order to make decisions for each step in the process, from the initial idea to the realization of the work. To give an extreme example, they have made a piece in which they fight until their four limbs become disembodied in the process. Fighting (2008) shows the brutal battle between the two, the “ladies first” rule is out the door, ruthlessly breaking the illusion of a harmonic collaboration. There are lots of paired objects or images in RohwaJeong’s works, and these pairs or doppelganger images function as their self-portraits. They often use everyday objects such as real and virtual buckets, hair dryers and watering pot, erasers and pencils, canvases of different sizes, and underwear, as metaphors of their relationship.

Fighting (2007)

https://rohwajeong.com/image/27907895662

Their work is solid, as it is created by mutually interdependent subjects, rather than a single subject alone. Instead of a circle with a single center, it is well balanced like an elliptical orbit with two pivotal points. Their negotiation of different perspectives is not a waste of time, since it provides the solid basis for the work that prevents one another from being lost. The conversation between the two is a discourse that can be reenacted in the relationship with the audience in the future, including careful verifications of each procedure from the initial idea to the actualization of the work. Compared to a single artist who works in solitude — one who might be at a complete loss in spite of working hard, not being able to get feedback — the couple’s collaboration seems to be an alternative working method. The artist aims for clear and simple works by removing unnecessary details, however, the works do not limit themselves merely to logic and intention. RohwaJeong’s style is unique in that its personal realm relates to the public realm, different from the reality that many art works face where they are still self-indulgent in general. The conversation, unlike a monologue, aspires to universality. It ceases to be a truth that only belongs to one, but becomes a sharable fact. 

RohwaJeong’s works are conceptual but not lifeless nor overly complicated, like what is commonly found in other forms of “conceptual art.” Through their connotative works or objects, inspired by real conversations and conversational imagination they suggest fragmentary reflections on something worth seriously thinking about. Their recent work created at Nanji Studio is related to the memories of school days, which is the cornerstone of current power relationships. The work Good answer is made by pulling out the thread after having a text embroidered. Due to the physical force of pulling out the thread, the letters are crumpled and the wooden frame of the canvas is partly revealed. The precedent of this piece is The thing (2014), where the artist pulls out the threads that write the English phrase, “THE THING THAT YOU KNOW, I DO NOT WANT TO KNOW” and allows it to hang in the air like a piece of crumbled paper. The letters no longer become legible, the flat becomes three-dimensional and the virtual becomes real. This work transforms the transparent delivery of the message into an opaque process. The white milk that all elementary school students are obligated to drink, having already passed its expiration date and decomposed, adds weight to the assigned gravity on the rope.

Good Answer (2015)

Standardized education, which is no more than a mechanical process of distributing information from one place to another, causes the unification of individual preferences, like controlling one’s appetite.

Good answer

deals with a common childhood memory, that of smelly milk that every student had to line up in order to drink. The work implies the process of pedagogical instruction, wherein we expect a fixed answer for a pre-assigned question — we learn that this is not limited to childhood. The act of crushing the neat fabric boldly reveals a festering wound that has quietly rotten. The work,

variable dimensions

shows how the various potentiality of a child gets fixed into a socially expected direction. In the black and white picture projected onto the wall we can see the different sizes of black nails stuck in children’s heads. The varied sizes of nails in the image with shown in various perspectives implicate what is happening in the symbolic universe these children have been brought into without choice.  There are metaphoric expressions in the piece as the fixed nails in perspective imply the fixed ideas and the rigidity of a hierarchical ranking system. The classroom is a place where social order is represented. Appearing as an old black and white photograph is a modification of an image — a present day classroom — downloaded from the web. 

Variable Dimensions (2015)

https://rohwajeong.com/post/137866163011

Even though we idealize the vague memories of school days the work implicates the ranking system and stereotypes that are actually initiated, then fixed. The work frame is a frame made out of reclaimed wood found in a landfill near Nanji Studio. The frame is filled with sand paper, used to polish the old wood into the finished frame. The monochrome plane inside the frame appears like an abstract painting where the artist’s soul is nestled. Polished is the frame, not the content. Inversely, the frame turns even a trivial thing into something that looks good. Complicating content and the form, the work focuses interest on the periphery rather than the center, or on the variability of the center-periphery relationship. Is it possible for an education system to aim to go beyond being merely instrumental, like the sand paper carefully preserved in the frame? Could trivial objects, such as sand paper or thrown away wood gain the same attention as a work of art? Frames often appear in RohwaJeong’s recent works, assuming the meaning of education as ultimately a framing process.

Frame (2015)

In the work, Drawing, a monitor playing cartoons is almost covered by the artist’s black drawings and installed on a children’s school desk. Even though it says “drawing” in the title, the result is more like an erasure. Living through the shared memories of children all over the world, the cartoon characters in animated movies from Walt Disney Pictures hide extremely cruel ideas and behaviors behind their cute appearances. This shared cultural product of Disney, in which children access before the language fully develops, trains the senses and attributes. To become global citizens, equates to the representations (like a survival strategy) depicted in the content of the cartoons (shown in the erased screen). The work is positioned in the middle of the desk, like a textbook or an exam paper, which must filled with the contents of the textbook. However, it is well known that the process of being immersed in the one-directional information that pours out of the media causes learning disabilities. Mit-guerim (Under the drawings) is a piece of drawing on a draped roll of paper that records the process of the artist’s drawing while moving. Like a seismometer the work attempts to grasp the impossible gestures in order to represent an unfixable existence. Here, representing the subject becomes a gradually fading trace. Regarding the process of socialization that fixes a subject onto a single point of representation, is this impossibility of representation a fortune or a tragedy?

Drawing (2015) process

As shown in the term the “politics of representation,” systems of representation are not merely a style of art, but also the mode of power that divides and reproduces the subject/object. Departing from classicism and realism, where education and enlightenment played important roles, contemporary art is deeply related to the discourse around the impossibility of representation. RohwaJeong’s message is most directly expressed in live and let live, written in cursive handwriting with black electric wires on a wooden board. The announced message “Let me live the way I want,” is the outcry of an individual, confronting the education system that became “the funnel for an immense unification”(<Art and Discourse>, 1996, LEE Sunyoung). Education is regarded as the most important socialization process. The process of removing the differences of individuals and not allowing one to live naturally as they are, enforces everyone to compete against each other until one dies out. This process presumes a group in power who asks others to devote their labor, sometimes their lives. The term “Citizen School” or “National People’s School (국민학교)” in Korean proves that modern education has settled down as the most fundamental system, turning natural people into “citizens” who can be mobilized as laborers and warriors.  

Live and let Live (2015)

Borrowing from the anti-war slogan during the World Wars and the Vietnam War, the message “live and let live” appeals to us because we live in the world where power tends to turn our everyday lives into a war. This message will become more appealing in the future, in an extended Enlightenment that is combined with the information age. The black electric wires constituting the letters are part of an experiment kit used in science class, and the small light bulb on the tip gradually dims as time passes, expressing an individual’s resistant outcry that fades. Not unlike that of education, the subjectification process in both private and public realms is closely related to the (social) system. The subject and the (social) structure are mutually produced, unlike how romanticism contrasts the two. In Moving-unchangeable1425 (2013), the numbers on the floor plan meet and part to make a wall. Whether it is a school, a military, or a workplace the work speaks about the process of the structuralization of power within social groups. The work is like a cheerful game, but it contains a dark message — that the system, which wields force gained by power, will not easily change. 

Moving - Unchangeable 1425 (2013)

https://rohwajeong.com/post/54583389267

RohwaJeong’s interests are omnidirectional when it comes to the exhibition system and conservative media, etc., since power is scattered everywhere in networks on microscopic and macroscopic levels. However, why is their recent practice focused on the educational system? Wouldn’t their age (mid-30s) influence them to reminisce about school memories with rose-tinted glasses? Doesn’t RohwaJeong belong to the older generation who identifies with the sub cultural rock music phrase “Do not believe people over 30!”? Nonetheless, in the Korean context, artists in their mid-30s have been concerned with school — either they feel victimized or they hold a sense of responsibility towards it. The foundation of our art world is so fragile that we need school as a “lifeline,” not only in our 30s, but also in our 40s. However, schools become the ruling reality rather than a place that can accept a vulnerable position art in the reality. In the current situation where the function and role of art are not fully recognized in society, except for inside of education system, “pedagogically related things” are in fact ongoing problems of today, not problems that have been left behind in the past.

Inside the standing water blocked by society, another dirty system of power, art, will not be able to free people even though we accumulate more knowledge about art. The art works that constantly support and strengthen the existing system are heavy and dismal. The “work,” that is held as mortgage by schools, lacks art’s intrinsic qualities to be able to joyfully run ahead, leaving behind this tangled reality. The people who believe that schools are autonomous and liberating, are only the few privileged by the system. The reality, in which we must become consumers of education and accumulate academic capital long after graduating from university, leaves a deep scar on ones who have dreamt of living their lives as artists. Since the entire society has become rationalized and systemized the tendency of the excessive growth of educational institutions, and furthermore the “school-ization” of the entire society, is interconnected to the trend of dividing all members of society into “manager and being managed” (Susan SONTAG). Regarding their tendency to work with their surrounding daily lives rather than a distanced reality, RohwaJeong’s message, “Let me live the way I want” appears to be a cynical but desperate outcry of the young generation who is confined by school. 

Korean society produces a sense of deprivation, as much as its materialistic excesses. We can affirm the great power of the system from the silent art world, which lacks the “angry youth” who demonstrates an understandable rage towards the system. According to the dictionary definition, the English term “school” and the French term “ecole” comes from the Greek word “schope,” meaning “leisure time.” It’s meaning was related to “the leisure time for learning how to absorb in contemplation.” Later on it relates to a craftsman school or private educational institutes. However, in the age of infinite competition with one’s “Spec.” (short for specifications, used in Korea to refer to an individual’s qualification) , schools are never places full of leisure. Schools demand students to be busier and busier, on the top of their already busy contemporary lives. Furthermore, they have became absurd places that produce “busy-ness” for the sake of being “busy.” Especially, in societies like Korea that are undergoing rapid bureaucratization, schools are gradually expanding in institutional dimensions, revealing social bottleneck phenomena and congestion. Whether positive or not, they are the places where we prepare ourselves or stand by in order to enter society. At the same time they represent society itself. Thus, some people learn the “social world” rather than knowledge of the arts and theories from school.

Schools insist on keeping their exclusive status’ even in the current state of the information society that is full of numerous opened opportunities for education. The (systematic) monopoly of schools is not driven by itself, but relies on the logic of the capital that has the more fundamental superiority. As long as schools stay under the subcategory of the capital, they will remain in eternal shackles to most people. We can see from RohwaJeong’s work, good answer, where the educational curriculum for a good answer is a procedure of internalizing disciplines (of the society), comparing it to the pain of forcefully cramming food that one cannot digest. The milk pack in the piece is (physically) small, but it is a hugely impactful symbol. Assuming that the internalization of power is the precondition for its autonomous execution, the rotten and inflated white milk, which is connected to the lines of composing letters, is a horrifying symbol of monotonous regulation that penetrates our soul, as well as our body. In Drawing, which displays Tom and Jerry chasing and being chased by each other on the screen, we can find an impulse to obliterate the perpetually inescapable process of power.  

In ‘Discipline and Punishment’, Michel FOUCAULT mentions that school is not only a place for education, but also functions as an institution that surveils, builds hierarchies, and dispenses rewards and punishment. Standing for the benefit of the majority, their disciplines are sophisticated techniques of power to control people, namely, a special technique that turns an individual into an instrument as well as a means of executing power. Individuals are produced through a strict observance of the rules, disciplinary punishments, imposed supervision, and restrictions. According to Foucault, discipline is a technique, which not only allocates one’s body, then extracting and accumulating “time” out of it, but also combines different forces to create an effective apparatus. Furthermore, it manages the time of one’s life, accumulates them into an useful form, and employs these controlled times to contribute to the execution of power on people. Indeed, our minds are also produced around, on the surface of, and within the body by the effect of power. RohwaJeong’s recent work emphasizes one of the most important messages today that art must convey to the society and itself, that is, the resistance of the body and soul that is tamed by discipline. 

[xxbyimm]

Enya’s Unexpected Journey

Hi guys!

This story is also on AO3, but I wanted to share it here as well. :) It’s about a girl from our world, who suddenly ends up in middle earth. She bumps into a very sexy and stubborn dwarf prince, who takes her with him, until she is safe. Will she end up in the company that is heading towards the lonely mountain? Will Thorin Oakenshield fall for our cute-looking tiny lady with her razor-sharp tongue and witty remarks?

Enjoy. xoxo

Chapter 1 

The Journey Begins... Her long dark chestnut hair was tied in a messy ponytail. She put her iPhone in the sweatband that was clinging on her upper arm. Her running shoes were bright new and had never been with her on the long and filthy track she run every day. Slowly she stood up from her bed and looked in the mirror that was hanging on the wall in front of her. She frowned as she studied herself. Her pale blue eyes stared back at her. She sighed. She looked tired. Maybe she should abandon her running routine just this once. The shit Jason put her through the last few weeks had been devastating for her health. And her sanity. She gave her mirror image a quick shake of her head. 'What the hell, maybe the forest will give me back my sanity' she muttered before turning away. Before she could change her mind, she quickly stumbled through her house. When she got to the back door and saw the pile of dishes in her kitchen, she reminded herself that she really needed to get her shit together. It was one thing to mourn for the loss off her first love, but she could not tolerate to completely lose her mind once again. She had been there five years ago and nearly died. When Jason finally got back to her, a place where he belonged (so he said), she got back on her feet as quick as she could. Because after all, he needed her. She would have been no use for him if she was a broken little mess of grief. That's at least what she told herself all those years ago. But last month… She shrugged, opened the back door and slipped through. She paced at the woods that were surrounding her house and hoped that the trees really could comfort her as they once had done. They had to.

She breathed heavily as she ran on the well-known track. Her iPhone played her favorite playlist, a mix between pop music and metal. She smiled when she thought about the surprise she got from people upon her when they discussed topics like favorite music genres. Although she thought these reactions should never stop amusing her, she lately found herself getting a bit annoyed by it. She grew tired of explaining how a little, cute-looking female like herself could possibly like metal artists like the agonist and nightwish. Like being 150 centimeters tall was equivalent in liking gentle music. She swallowed and pushed herself to run a bit harder. No one should ever tell someone how to live their life. Just like Jason… She grunted and tried to push the thought away, but it lingered in the back of her mind. She shrugged and concentrated on the music her phone was playing. ‘Yes!’ she cheered when her iPhone started playing ‘Engine 45’ from the band the ghost inside and took a sprint. ‘IT’S SO HARD FOR ME, SEEING LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL!’ she screamed along with the singer. The beat drummed in the air as the trees rushed by. She smiled when she realized her new shoes fit her feet perfectly. This made running a hell of a lot easier!

Because she was day-dreaming about her new fantastic shoes, she was caught of guard by the enormous tree root she stumbled on. ‘Oh god damn it!’ she cursed when she found herself flying toward the hard soil. She readied herself for the hard smack she was about to make. She screamed as she kept falling through darkness. She was not reaching the ground. It was gone. What was happening? Did she fall asleep in her bed and never started running in the first space? Was this a dream? She screamed again when the darkness suddenly changed in a very bright light. Was she dying? She groaned as she felt a fierce pain in her back. The green grass beneath her was soft to the touch. Slowly she scrambled herself together and ignored the pain that was protesting against her movements. She looked around and found herself in a completely different surrounding. Well... it was still a forest, but the dark green pines she was passing just a few minutes ago, were replaced by a bright open spot in the middle of a thick forest. She frowned when she realized she had no idea where she was. She must have run off her usual track. ‘Shit’ she muttered. What should she do now? She gasped when she noticed that this forest was blooming and the air smelled like it smells on an early spring day. No. This couldn’t be. It had been autumn when she left her house. She braced herself when she heard branches cracking on the other side of the open spot. She shuffled herself behind a bush and watched curiously as two figures appeared. She gulped as her mind almost immediately identified them.

Orcs.

They had a somewhat green ill-looking skin and bright blue fishy eyes. Their clothes were filthy, but it didn't seem to bother them. She could detect the foul odor they carried with them. ‘I’m sure I heard screams’ said the smallest of the two. He was bald and had his lip pierced a few times. ‘I don’t see anything’ the other one growled. An enormous bulge around his waist nearly made the belt, which was holding together his clothing, burst. ‘We should return to our master, before he makes us dinner for the wargs’ He turned around and disappeared behind the trees. The small orc stood still and sniffed with his filthy nose in the air. ‘I don’t recall this scent’ he said and walked right at the bush where she sat. ‘Come on!’ bellowed the fat orc from the forest. She could not see him anymore, but the smallest orc was far too close for her liking. She tried to keep as still as she could. The orc looked around and shrugged. She held her breath as he turned around and too disappeared on the other side of the forest. ‘Thank god for that’ she whispered and she just wanted to get up when one strong arm locked itself around her abdomen while the hand from the other arm kept her mouth firmly shut. She wanted to kick and scream for help, but her assailant was much more stronger than she was. Well, this makes all the martial arts classes I took useless, she thought unhappily. She gasped with surprise when her assailant finally let her go and pushed her against a tree. She wanted to scream, but when she looked in his eyes, she went numb. ‘What the hell were you doing?’ he whispered furiously. ‘Gundabad orcs are NO joke. They would have killed you in an instant.’ ‘I…’ she said, helplessly searching for words. This could not be. It could not be him. But the piercing blue eyes, characteristic nose, rough long dark brown locks and bushy beard could hardly belong to any other man she visualized whilst reading. Was she dreaming? ‘And what are you wearing?’ he asked, as he was regarding her with curiosity. ‘It hardly seems fit for traveling. That is, if a lady like you is really traveling.’ ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake’ she muttered. ‘What?’ he said. She gave him a little smile while she was trying to process what was happening to her. This had to be him. She decided she should give her theory a try. ‘This, sir Oakenshield, is my running outfit. I was running to clear my head, not to encounter some LARPing event where suddenly I am threatened by some orcs and the son of Thraín, son of Thrór.’ He frowned and looked at her, clearly puzzled. ‘How do you know who I am?’ ‘Well… doesn’t everyone know you?’ she answered. He smiled. ‘I supposed not in these lands.’ ‘Well… maybe if you were in let’s say… Africa or something. But here in America you are quite known.’ She shivered and sighed as she realized that the running short was hardly covering her bottom. And wherever she was, it was cold here. ‘Can you guide me out of this bloody forest?’ she asked ‘I really want to go home.’ He didn’t answer and just stared at her. After a few moments he seemed to regain his consciousness and he asked: ‘America?’ She groaned. ‘This is hardly funny anymore. I told you, I had no intention running into a LARPing event! So could you please just break character for a moment and tell me where-’ ‘Larping?’ he interrupted while he let the sound of the word rolling on his tongue. ‘It is an event where you engage in a fantasy play and reenact stories from lord of the rings, or harry potter, whatever you like’ she answered irritated. ‘Fantasy play…’ he repeated and then chuckled. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’ ‘Oh dear god!’ she screamed. ‘Never mind. Just tell me where I am.’ ‘The shire.’ He said and studied her face for a reaction. ‘You serious.’ She narrowed her eyes and looked intently at his face to see if he mocked her. But she only saw genuine concern. ‘Yes. We are on the border of the shire. It worries me that orcs dare to venture in this land.’ She sat down at the root of the tree and watched her shoes as she spoke. ‘Tell me this isn’t a cruel joke. One moment I am running and-’ She suddenly remembered her phone, which was still on her arm. She grabbed it and stared at the screen. No reception. ‘Where am I?’ she muttered. ‘What are you?’ asked Thorin Oakenshield as he watched her tuck her phone away in the tiny pocket in her short. She chuckled. ‘Human.’ ‘You are quite short for a human.’ ‘And you are a bit too tall to be a dwarf, aren’t you?’ Thorin Oakenshield smiled. ‘You seem to know much about me, yet I have no idea who you are. What’s your name, human?’ She tilted her head and calculated if this man really was the Thorin Oakenshield she imaged him to be. Indeed, he was somewhat tall for a dwarf. Yet, he had the broad masculine body that dwarves supposed to have. He looked very masculine, with strong muscles on his arms and big sturdy hands. She wondered what he would look like without all the heavy armor he was wearing. She bit her lip and tried not to blush. ‘Enya’ she said. ‘And where are you from, Enya?’ he asked softly. ‘You would not believe it if I told you.’ She laughed. ‘I think I come from some alternate universe. I went out for a run and I ended up here, in middle earth I suppose?’ He nodded shortly and regarded her with suspicion. ‘You obviously dress…’ He didn’t finish his sentence. Enya shrugged. ‘I suppose in this world you could call it inappropriately short. But believe me, in my world this is normal.’ She sighed. ‘I guess I should find some suitable clothes for this environment then.’ She stood up and started walking, with actually no idea where she should go. ‘Well,’ she said out loud. ‘I can firmly say I am screwed.’ ‘You are what?’ she heard behind her. Enya giggled. ‘I’m trying to say I have nowhere to go. AND I have no idea what I should do next.’ Thorin grinned. ‘Then you should come with me.’ ‘And where were you going?’ she asked. He didn’t answer and made a sign that she should follow him. Enya sighted. All right. She went from taking a long run in the forest to a field trip with Thorin Oakenshield himself. Not that she was complaining. She smiled. As she had no idea why she ended up in middle earth and how she was able to go home, she decided that she should make the most out of this experience. Besides, she really wanted to know more about this man. She chuckled. She might even get to know his nephews. If they existed in this reality. ‘Hurry up!’ Thorin’s husky voice startled her and she took a sprint to catch up. ‘Now I can see why so few clothes would come in handy’ he mused. Enya laughed. ‘May I remind you that I am a woman from an alternate universe that is not afraid of telling you the truth when you say or do anything inappropriate? I will slap you.’ Thorin turned around to face her. ‘You are quite bold.’ ‘Are you not used to that?’ she purred. Thorin smirked at her before he walked further. ‘I might. If you were from my kin, I would-’ ‘Good thing I am not then’ Enya winked. She chuckled when she heard him laughing while he walked away. This could be interesting.

[chicagoindiecritics]

New from Every Movie Has a Lesson by Don Shanahan: 20 YEAR RETROSPECTIVE: The best of the rest of 1999

(Background image: twitter.com)

In an annual series, Every Movie Has a Lesson is going to look back twenty years to revisit, relearn, and reexamine a year of cinema history to share favorites, lists, and experiences from the films of that year.

As I was saying one column earlier when I laid out my absolute Top 20 from 1999, I was a 20-year-old undergrad Elementary Education major at Saint Joseph’s College twenty years ago. I was a country kid absorbing cable television for the first time, working at a local video store, writing movie reviews for the college newspaper. I was devouring movies new and old and the rural boundaries of Rensselaer, Indiana or my activity time as the football equipment manager didn’t stop me. On football road trips, I was more or less “staff” where I wasn’t bed-checked like the players. I used to go out after hours, pre-Uber and without a cell phone, and scout ahead the closest movie theater to the team hotel in order to find ways to see movies on opening Friday nights. Man, that was living.

As the historians will tell you, 1999 was a damn fine year. There are many films from that year that count as favorites and greats in several different ways. Some have gotten better with age and some have worsened, even dropping at as former favorites. Here are my little breakdowns of the “rest of 1999.” Enjoy!

Personal Favorites

(Image: justwatch.com)

Message in a Bottle, Entrapment, Deep Blue Sea, The 13th Warrior, The Mummy, Double Jeopardy, Life, Star War: Episode I – The Phantom Menace, The Best Man, The Bone Collector, Bicentennial Man

My 1998 retrospective last year will show you that I am an absolute softy for a romantic genre. My first taste of anything Nicholas Sparks came in movie form and it was the Kevin Costner-starring Message in a Bottle. This might have been my #2 favorite movie of 1999 in the college newspaper behind The Green Mile and I swallow a minute amount of shame. I still love this one. Kostner is a lifetime favorite of mine and his pairing with Paul Newman set against melodrama with rich production values (that Caleb Deschanel cinematography and Gabriel Yared score still get me) was gold for me.

Along the same lines, 2014’s The Best Man Holiday made me re-fall-in-love with The Best Man, a favorite that has only gotten better. Sappy Robin Williams has a limit, but Bicentennial Man can still arouse bigger sci-fi thoughts I appreciate. I’ll never grow tired of the best big-screen WTF moment of that year with Deep Blue Sea and its Samuel L. Jackson swerve.

The 1990s were the peak of the “mid-budget programmer,” studio-backed star vehicles with easy budgets, proven talent, and often genre content risks. Many of those became your steady diet of basic cable entertainment years later before reality TV took over. I’ll gladly put on the likes of Entrapment, Deep Blue Sea, Double Jeopardy, Life, Bicentennial Man, and The Bone Collector over many of today’s straight-to-Netflix films of the same budget level. The old stuff is so much better. The 90s also did blockbusters pretty damn well for its time too where I have no problem still enjoying Star Wars: Episode !- The Phantom Menace (just turn on Darth Maul and those John Williams choir voices) and The Mummy. Story came before effects still and it shows.

Guilty Pleasures

(Image: youtube.com)

Varsity Blues, Any Given Sunday, American Pie, She’s All That, Simply Irresistible, Cruel Intentions, 10 Things I Hate About You, Austin Power: The Spy Who Shagged Me, The World is Not Enough, Lake Placid, Galaxy Quest. The Boondock Saints

Speaking of those mid-budget programmers, the next class down was the lost art of the “high school movie.” The 1980s has John Hughes and the 1990s had the R-rated raunch phase that pushed further what the 80s started. Made for virtually pennies with mostly unknown talent or TV stars, these movies raked at the box office with the youth of the day, myself included. Honestly, they don’t make these kinds of movie anymore. Hell, they couldn’t get made today with the same landscape and lenses. Six years ago, I wrote an editorial here on Every Movie Has a Lesson on that phenomenon and it feels even more true in 2019. The raunchy teens grew into the “man-child” movies of the 2000s and 9/11 made everyone grow up into a wiser political culture since.

With that in mind, it’s probably wrong and more than a little misogynistic to enjoy the debauchery of American Pie, Varsity Blues, and even the intentional camp of Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me in 2019. Alas, I could and I do. They’re time capsules of eye-rolling fun at this point. I just can’t show these movies to my students or own children. They count as guilty pleasures, right next to James Bond films and cheesy creature features.

Not all in this section are contraband. One can argue there isn’t a 1999 movie that has aged better, surprisingly, than Galaxy Quest, which grows with esteem and fandom the more other things retread and reboot. The football fans still rightfully worship the swagger of Any Given Sunday. Pygmalion and Shakespeare students can still be proud of She’s All That and 10 Things I Hate About You (which is many folks’ introduction to the late Heath Ledger, including mine). The buried treasure I recommend the most is Sarah Michelle Geller’s Simply Irresistible, an airy and easy romance that also couldn’t be made today with the same panache. I gave that one some anniversary love this year writing for 25YL. Seek it out for a good time.

Underrated Gems

(Image: letterboxd.com)

Payback, True Crime, EDtv, A Walk on the Moon, The General’s Daughter, Summer of Sam, The Wood

Here are a few to add to Bringing Out the Dead and Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai which made my Top 20 in the last post. These titles are a step down from personal favorites, but movies that I find more solid than flimsy compared to the rest of the offerings from 1999. Most are more of those mid-budget programmers like Payback and The General’s Daughter, but don’t sleep on director Spike Lee’s under-seen Summer of Sam or Viggo Mortensen’s swooning Woodstock romance A Walk on the Moon. Plenty cheesy for sure, but EDtv counts as slightly ahead of its time even after trying to follow The Truman Show from 1998.

Re-Visitations Needed

(Image: rogerebert.com)

Magnolia, Eyes Wide Shut, Being John Malkovich, 8mm, Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels, Pushing Tin, Dick, Sleepy Hollow, Ride With the Devil, Girl Interrupted

With full admission, the 20-year-old version of me did not have his teeth completely cut or his eyes fully focused as a fit critic who could see past the entertainment and into the art. There are many movies on fancier “Best of 1999” lists that were simply lost on me back in their day. I recognize the impact and greatness of Magnolia, Eyes Wide Shut, and Being John Malkovich, for example, but they will always be distant. Some of them I’ve tried again. Some need another chance or two. For the others, I want to see how a few top directors’ (Guy Ritchie, Ang Lee, Tim Burton) earlier works look now against their current stuff.

Blind Spots

(Image: The Independent)

The Straight Story, Ravenous, All About My Mother, The Thirteen Floor, Flawless

These are the movies looking to make the queues and wish lists on platforms and streaming services so richly available to us in 2019.

Overrated

(Image: variety.com)

The Sixth Sense, The Blair Witch Project, Analyze This, Never Been Kissed, Big Daddy, South Park: Bigger, Longer, and Uncut, Mystery Men, Dogma

Alright, let me get my next umbrella to cover the crap coming to fall. I’m going to come right out and call M. Night Shyamalan’s The Sixth Sense overrated. It’s the biggest 1999 movie that has fallen out of favor for me personally. I blame the director’s degrading work since this first hit. Smart as it is, it loses a little each viewing and only exposes his twist-dependent lack of creativity. I know Mystery Men has earned a level of cult status, but I find it to be a busy mess still. The repeated crappy comedy phase since 1999 for Robert De Niro has not helped Analyze This.

After that, it’s about personal taste. I’m never been a South Park lover, TV or otherwise. Kevin Smith’s work has not aged well for me and Dogma, as bold as it was, feels like preening more than deep satire. I’m not a horror guy and couldn’t care less about the 1999’s equivalent of click bait with The Blair Witch Project. Thanks for the motion sickness, though. I’ve never been a Drew Barrymore fan, and I think Big Daddy is where Adam Sandler started to lose his edge and sink into the weak sauce territory that, other than a few moments like Uncut Gems this year, he’s never recovered from.

Still Bad

(Image: forbes.com)

Wild Wild West, Baby Geniuses, My Favorite Martian, Virus, Wing Commander, Forces of Nature, The Mod Squad, Runaway Bride, The Out-of-Towners, Bowfinger, Mickey Blue Eyes, The Bachelor, Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigolo, The Haunting

Yikes, was Wild Wild West a trainwreck! But then, we also got Wing Commander. Double yikes!

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[annsparksthegmr]

Dangan Thieves AU - Sonia Nevermind

So here’s the lovely Ultimate Princess of the Dangan Thieves AU and… *face plants onto desk* As much as Sonia is a likable character she is more of a pain to write simply because of her “perfect character.” I had to rewrite this like… four times just so it felt like this could possibly be Sonia Nevermind and not somebody else. Why is her character designed to be nearly like a Mary Sue at points? Couldn’t she just have a few more notable ones or did I overlook them?

…

Anyway, Sonia Nevermind position as the main party Support member came from my chat with @shsl-shipper-gamer-fangirl and we came to the conclusion we’d at least have two members taking that role (Being Sonia and Mahiru). As for her Persona, I’d like to thank @killr-cupcake for suggesting ideas for the Persona - and helping me narrow down the list. Though after Sonia I’m going to take a break from characters and work on other things… like possible Palaces and Mementos stuff! Be sure to take tune for that and ENJOY!!!

Sonia Nevermind

Arcana: Empress

Codename: Enchantress

Outfit: A spiked crown rests upon her head as Sonia’s blonde hair is now in a long braided style. Around her neck is a golden dog whistle and it leads into a brown and golden transformer skirt dress. Wearing brown boots underneath, the accessories on her dress are golden roses pinned around her waistline alongside the smaller ones which are pinned to her leather gloves.

Mask: A Kai Ken dog designed mask.

Persona: Hecate. (Greek Goddess of magic, witchcraft, the night, the moon, ghosts, and necromancy.) Note: Hecate takes the form of three-headed dog mecha which she can enter and pilot to avoid being targeted by enemies. Upon the second awakening, it is rebirth into a three-headed dog-dragon hybrid mecha and it can now actively use abilities while flying through the sky.

Skillset:

Short Reconnaissance - Can reveal the basic information about enemies after defeating them.

Sparking Justice - Donning the mask itself, she yells words of encouragement. Little apple projections surround the party as they get attack buffs.

Health Reserve - Recovers 5% HP after every battle.

Upgrades to

Health Assistance - Recovers 20% HP after each battle.

Midnight Slip - Taking off one of her slippers, she throws it onto her enemies as it grows in size. Pointing towards the falling slipper, her Persona’s mouths open to reveal missiles that fire to shatter the falling object. While this does minimal damage, it reduces the enemy's Accuracy/Evasion. There are also tons of profanities flying across the battlefield.

Energy Reserve - Recovers 5% SP after every battle.

Upgrade to

Energy Assistance - Recovers 10% SP after each battle.

Royal Decree - Removes all debuffs on the party as Sonia reads a scroll that released a wave of energy.

Bad Apple - Summoning a huge apple with a green aura, she tosses it into the middle of the field, where it falls apart. Allies can gain buffs to the Attack, Defense and/or Accuracy/Evasion and the enemies will suffer debuffs matching the boosts the part received. The buffs will come at random with small changes of getting all of the current buffs.

Bewitching Torch - Has a rare chance to fully recover the HP & SP of an ally.

*All-Out Attack Card: “Bow before your enchantress!” beside the enemies getting roasted by her Persona. Sonia is happily smiling with the catchphrase “Oops. Sorry about that!”

Persona Awakening Dialogue:

Hecate: “You’ve made me wait for so long as you hid behind your title? Do you finally understand now? That using your perfect image of being a princess can no longer protect you from the despair that plagues your soul every day. Everything you love will be robbed anyway if you do nothing… have you given into despair so easily?”

Sonia: “...I… No, I still haven’t lost hope yet. Everyone’s hope being butchered into despair here by a cruel soul… Now I truly believe what they’ve said. If only I had the strength to save them!”

Hecate: “...Your heart is as pure as your intentions may seem to be… there is hope in forging the contract with you. Together, we may yet strike a chance to waver the fate and your destiny into the one desired. The contract itself can be sealed now with your new found hope rekindled. I am thou, thou art I… Let your graceful facade shatter their vision and reveal to all the true passion you crafted!”

Sonia: “Of course. And I shall no longer be a subservient bystander to this madness!! This will end with all my might and it starts today! Time to shine forth! Hecate!”

Quotes:

“All hostiles have been annihilated. Well done everyone!”

“There appears to be a safe room up ahead. I advise that we all rest before continuing.”

“I’ve appeared to have gotten stronger!” (Level Up)

“My magic’s improved!” (Skill Up)

“That shimmering shine… Ace, we’ve got some treasure to get!”

“...Have we been in here longer than we should have? I’m getting some weird readings on my end. Be careful.”

“We are on a roll! Let’s keep going!!”

“Everyone is too badly injured; I suggest we retreat for now and recover Ace.”

“Hostile Shadows up ahead; will we engage or sneak by them?”

“Huh? Did you expose yourself by accident?” or “Look out! Hostiles coming!”

“Don’t waste yourself on these ones.”

“...Shadows up ahead are quite dangerous; perhaps we should sneak by?”

“Something’s amiss here; I suggest safety protocols before proceeding.”

“Congratulations everyone!”

“Our teamwork was on point.”

ENTERING A BATTLE VIA AMBUSH: “The odds are in our favor. Let’s keep it that way okay?”

GETTING AMBUSH: “We’re surrounded!!! Keep your guard up!”

RUSH: “Eliminate them all quickly!”

ENCOUNTERING THE REAPER: “Are you trying to face Death?! Flee at once!”

ATTEMPTING TO ESCAPE FROM BATTLE: “An escape route? I’ll see what I can do.”

PARTY MANAGES TO ESCAPE FROM BATTLE: “Retreat now; I’ve made an opening!”

AN ENEMY FLEES IN A PALACE: “What?! Pursue that Shadow before it raises security!!”

Short Reconnaissance: “I’ve made a record of the Shadow for future reference.”

Sparking Justice: “One morale boost coming up!”

Midnight Slip: “Oops I…” *proceeds to yell out profanities*

Royal Decree: “Cease these debuffs on my party immediately!”

Bad Apple: “Want something refreshing? Here you go!”

Bewitching Torch: “I’m dropping off some aid; who needs it most?”

WHEN SOMEONE’S HEALTH IS LOW: “Watch your health; one more move might end it all if not healed.”

WHEN SOMEONE’S INCAPACITATED: “Oh no! Somebody please help them!”

WHEN SOMEONE’S WEAKNESS IS EXPLOITED: “They found their weakness! Cover for them!”

WHEN SOMEONE MISSES: “Did you forget to aim for the target?! Be careful.”

PERFORMING 3 BATON PASSES IN SUCCESSION: “Excellent! This is just what we needed.”

ANNOUNCING ALL-OUT ATTACK: “Time for some execution!”

Burn: “...Do I smell something burning?!? Somebody put that out now!”

Freeze: “We don’t need a human popsicle! Somebody thaw them out!”

Shock: “They got paralyzed; they won’t be able to do anything until it is removed!”

Forget: “Why did you get this now? Help them to remember their Persona!”

Charm: “...Flirty with the enemy? Is that common in Japanese culture?”

Rage: “What are they doing? I can’t get through to them!?!”

Brainwash: “This isn’t good; they see us as the enemy! Break the sell please!”

Despair: “Somebody fell into Despair; somebody give them a pep talk before they lose it!”

Hunger: “Who forgot to have a snack? Get them some food stat!”

Dizzy: “This isn’t a merry-go-round ride! Get them back to normal quickly!”

Sleep: “Falling asleep on the battlefield? This is no time to take a nap!”

Silence: “Why have they gone silent? Somebody help them!”

Mouse: “Aw~ They look so adorable as a mouse~ I just want to pet and love them~!”

Mementos Chats:

“Not to seem inconsiderate Ace, but you’re driving... well… lacking in some places.”

“I’ve got to say; having a dog mecha as my Persona just like in those historical animations I used to watch is amazing! I wonder if I can find more of them…”

“Using a dog whistle to recollect my Persona is a bit awkward… but I can make do as long as I’m not in the fray.”

“Freeing the hearts of those inflicted by despair… that is what I wish of our accomplishments to amount towards.”

“Never once did I believe that a Dangan Thief would be this engaging. I can safely say that these memories I’ll never forget for the rest of my life!”

Sonia: “I’m impressed at how you’ve managed to make it for so long without somebody having a Persona like myself!”

Hinata: “Um… thanks, I guess?”

Hinata: “...Hold on, haven’t we been here before?”

Sonia: “Perhaps… then again most of this place looks the same to me…”

Sonia: “How peculiar that my Persona manifested so differently that I have to keep a dog whistle to control it… Huh?! What game are you playing?”

Chiaki: “Oh this? It’s one of those games where you take care of pets… just like this dog right here.”

Sonia: “Ah! Are you okay Heartbeat? Why are you laughing so much?”

Mikan: “Ehehe, s-sorry about that. I’m j-just having so much f-fun with e-everyone…”

Nagito: “Dearess Enchantress, your hope has truly been bountiful to our efforts. With your ravenous canine on our side, there is no way despair can stop us.”

Sonia: “Thank you… so much… I guess...”

Sonia: “Owl! I’m so delighted that we are working together. Tell me, are you up hanging out with us girl sometime? We’re planning a baking session.”

Peko: “I’d… like that very much if I have the time.”

Fuyuhiko: “Yo Enchantress, are you sure you know exactly what you’re doing?”

Sonia: “I know very well what I’m doing here Gangster. Thank you for asking.”

Sonia: “...Why is he the only one who I can’t truly identify? Is he hiding something…?”

Imposter: “Did you say something Enchantress?”

Sonia: “Oh nothing! Sorry, I was just thinking if I can make anything else with my powers to help us in the future!”

Sonia: “I’m so grateful to have another thief just like you; we’re sure to make an excellent team!”

Mahiru: “Yeah…  that is if you’re carrying your own weight most of the time.”

[elfnerdherder]

The Unquiet Grave: Chapter 5

You can read Chapter 5 on Ao3 Here

Chapter 5: What Games We Play

           Hannibal Lecter’s office is the product of a man that drowns in aesthetics. When Will is allowed in from a small waiting room, he learns more about Dr. Lecter by how he decorates than how he interacts. There is a sense of vertigo, Will’s having to look around to learn about someone rather than simply look into their eyes to see. He knows of several empaths that would have been annoyed at the shift, at the sense of tilting over as their world and all of its truths changed.

           Will harbors no such feelings. After his readings on Dr. Lecter, he is more than eager to learn by visual directions rather than empath-impressions. It’s a hunger he won’t deny himself, seeing as how he’s never been able to entertain it before.

           “Are you going to sit down?” Lecter asks him as he peruses books ranging from Dante to Doyle to Bronte. He pauses on one whose spine is mildly abused, and he pulls the book out in order to open it, curious.

           “You like Blake,” he says, glancing back to Lecter seated in a leather upholstered chair.

           “I do,” he agrees, and if he minds Will’s pacing and perusing, it doesn’t show on his face. That sort of uncertainty, that sense of unknowing, makes him wander about more, glancing over everything with a sort of hunger that distracts him from the fact that he didn’t get much sleep the night before.

           “Cruelty has a human heart, and jealousy a human face,” he tells Lecter absentmindedly beside a loud paneling of curtains. He thumbs through the book, feeling pages with gloved hands. He wonders what sort of impressions he’d take from touching the pages with his fingertips unclothed, but he doesn’t do it. There is something exciting, eager about his thoughts at the realization that for the first time in forever, he’ll have to make an educated guess.

           Hannibal Lecter interests him far more than he’s willing to let on.

           “Terror the human form divine, and Secresy the human dress,” Hannibal finishes for him. “A Divine Image, William Blake. Tell me about Agent Hobbs, Agent Graham.”

           “Are you asking if he had a cruel, human heart with a jealous human face?” he asks, pausing beside a stag whose heft of brass carving looks heavy enough to be troublesome if it ever fell over. He glides the back of his free hand along the curve of the flank, staring at the intricate details along its neck, the intelligent look rendered in its carved eyes.

           “You know him best of all, since you tracked him. The news didn’t make it public that he was a rogue agent, therefore I was mildly surprised when you told me that.”

           Will logs it away that Hannibal Lecter’s surprise is so well hidden that when he’d first told him of Hobbs, it hadn’t shown in the slightest. He’ll have to get better at reading his face, learn the small tics and twitches of it. “The FBI doesn’t like it to be public that despite their best efforts, empaths aren’t the most solid of choices for field work.”

           “Why use you, then, if it’s so utterly dangerous?”

           “The man hours alone that it saves in using us saves the government, and thereby the people, billions of dollars. The equipment used in the labs that can be set aside for only the more complicated or necessary work that normally costs hundreds to thousands for use or operation is another money saver, and even with our higher pay and mental compensation plans, it ultimately saves the most money to use us than to not.”

           “The mental strain alone ultimately breaks most empaths in the end, though,” Lecter points out.

            “Saves money on retirement, then, too,” Will retorts.

             “As we can see with the late Agent Hobbs,” Lecter replies after a beat, dryly. “What caused him to go rogue?”

           Will peruses a small section of books dedicated to art work, and he finds William Blake once more. He takes that book from the shelf as well, curiosity making him turn pages, thumbing through to find ones with the most faded edges, one touched by hands of reverence or eagerness. What art moves Dr. Lecter? What gives him inspiration, voice, essence?

           “…He was retiring soon,” he says, and he glances over to Lecter to gauge his reaction to Will touching his things. His expression is impassive, his deep-set eyes intent but not narrowed. Will marvels at the ability to study, to see without seeing, and he makes his way closer, feet sinking into the plush and intricate design of a floor rug as he makes his way to the chair opposite of Lecter’s. He doesn’t sit just yet, though. “He had a standard, six-month mental evaluation, like we all do in order to test our mental state. He didn’t pass, and with his daughter graduating high school as well, it was decided that he would be better suited retiring and going home to help her with that rather than continue work that he couldn’t do and do well.”

           “Do you think the retirement caused him to lose sight of everything that he deemed important?”

           “I think it was a catalyst, but the retirement was because he was losing his grasp on reality even before he starting killing. In his evaluation, he discussed his daughter with a behavior and dialogue verging on obsessive, and he referred to their time together as a form of honoring who she was and what she was. Her upcoming graduation, coupled with a red stamp of disapproval on his sheet were only the straws to ultimately break the camel’s back, not some singular moment that made him fantasize about killing.”

           “Was it killing, in his mind?” Hannibal asks. Will handles the two books, shifts and paces along the rug in order to study a painting on the wall depicting two women in a glade beside a well. He stares at the painting, at the oil on canvas rendered with care and adoration, and he shakes his head, whether Hannibal can see it or not.

           “He was honoring them, and in doing so, honored her,” he says slowly. “They thought that his retirement would give him the time to spend with her before she left, but that sudden shift in a life plan, coupled with what he thought to be a loss of his daughter, pushed him over, and the intrusive thoughts and dreams he’d already struggled with took hold until he couldn’t see his way out anymore.”

           “You told Dr. Bloom that he wasn’t like most psychopathic empaths –the title for them is, of course, in itself a paradox.”

           “He’s not,” Will says it, realizes he’s speaking as though Hobbs is still alive. “He…was sensitive. His delusions, his dreams made him believe that he was honestly honoring those girls, giving them something beyond themselves as he found a way to connect to his daughter without having to hurt her. He tried to make their deaths as painless as possible.”

           “In comparison, you shooting him will have felt far more jarring after you experienced the form of care that he gave to his victims while giving him no such respect in his own demise.”

           The fact that he can see that, the fact that Lecter says those words with such assurance, such confidence is staggering, and Will turns back to him to stare, swallowing down a noise of indignation and surprise. He meets Dr. Lecter’s gaze and it holds for far longer than he’s ever held a gaze with someone –such things would have normally pulled him into the dark depths of the iris, the knowing place where ugly things were left to rot inside of the mind. With Lecter, though, he isn’t drawn in; instead, he notes the pleased crinkles near his eyes, the faintest of twitches near his lips that suggests he knows exactly what Will is doing, roaming around touching his things.

           Dr. Lecter doesn’t mind it in the least.

           If anything, he seems amused to see Will invade his space with the behavior of someone that is used to doing that for a living with no one to stop them. Will finds it in himself to sit down, still holding both the book of art and the book of poetry like shields against Lecter’s immense sense of knowing.

           “She was his golden ticket,” Will finds himself saying. “He was about to destroy it because all else was lost. The FBI took his job, his future, his plans, his…aspirations, left him to go home where life itself was taking away the one pride and joy he had, and in his mind they let him go to watch the only thing he had left leave him. I can unequivocally understand him, but I don’t regret killing him.”

           “No, in the heat of the moment, I’d almost say you enjoyed it.”

           He rears back in his chair, gripping the books tightly at that. There is no indication of judgement or censure in those words, just a calm and almost detached tone to it, like Lecter is commenting on the particularly pretty shade of blue in a pair of off brand dress slacks.

           “…Killing is the ugliest thing in the world,” he finds himself saying. Slow, purposeful. Like he has had to recite the words in his head several times before forcing them out.

           “There is something beautiful in its power, though; we inherited our capacity for violence and cruelty from our human ancestors, not our animal ancestors. There is something to be said to be able to enjoy it from an artistic perspective, as you tend to have to do when you look into the eyes of a fellow empath and see how they felt in killing.”

           “Trying to trap me, doctor?” Will taunts lightly. “Going to tell Jack I’ve an itch for killing people now because of Agent Hobbs?”

           “On the contrary, my intent is to show you the many ways in which you can understand that killing, for all of its horrific nature, the ugliness you see it to be, can also be purposeful, right. You’re allowed to take pleasure in the way you took control of your circumstances and saved your life as well as the life of Abigail Hobbs. That in no way makes you the monster your mind would have you be.”

           “’The Caverns of the Grave I’ve seen, and these I show’d to England’s Queen. But now the Caves of Hell I view, Who shall I dare to show them to?’” Will quotes Blake, fingers tapping lightly over the cover. Hannibal considered him, head tilting slightly to the other side, almost animalistic in nature, before he smiles, a clever and engaging sort of thing.

           “Me, Agent Graham; you show them to me.”

           When he sees Will out from a second door used for patient exits, Will goes to return the books he’d thumbed through. He’s surprised when Dr. Lecter refuses, instead pushing them back towards Will’s chest with that same damned, ambiguous smile he wore for the rest of their conversation.

           “Please, Agent Graham, you’ve certainly earned the time and leisure to look through those as you like. Return them when you’ve found what you’re looking for.”

           Later, setting them alongside Beverly’s tablet with Dr. Lecter’s articles in the journals, he wonders what exactly he’s looking for that the good doctor seems to know everything about.

-

           He gets coffee with Alana because she insists, and because she’s a good enough friend he’d hate to disappoint or worry her. It’s a small shop that deserves more customers than it has, what with the fair prices and elegant, old-fashioned way of making coffee, but Will is glad for it. It’s just them, the woman running the counter, and a couple tucked into the corner with their Sudoku and their crosswords.

           “Hannibal tells me he’s met with you a few times,” she says, stirring a chai latte. Time has made it so that he hardly has to look at her to see what she’s feeling or thinking. Relief and pleasure are a film on the table that wasn’t quite wiped clean.

           “Yes.”

           “Has it helped?”

           “Did you know about his ability to be unread by empaths?” Will wonders out loud. He doesn’t have to wait for an answer. He glances to her mouth, sees the guilt at keeping what she’d consider a secret. “I didn’t ask, therefore you didn’t tell me.”

           “I figured you wouldn’t believe until you saw,” she says with a nod.

           “That’s true.”

           “Has it helped, Will?” she presses when he says nothing else. “He went with you when you went to the RA’s home.”

           “That’s his house, but it’s not his home. There’s somewhere else he keeps his secrets.”

           That’s how it was with empaths, although the look of confusion on Alana’s face tells him she doesn’t quite follow his train of thought. Dreamers in particular, like Dolarhyde, are trained to build walls, to create safe spaces within safe spaces. Although he couldn’t hide his fear, he could build enough walls with his dreams that he could hide his secrets and save them for another place.

           “Jack is getting me information regarding what he was working on before he went rogue, and another agent sent me an address to a place he liked to frequent between jobs,” he continues rather than explain what he meant. “Dr. Lecter wants to follow along.”

           He doesn’t reveal that he doesn’t mind as much as he thought he would, Lecter’s following along. After visiting Dolarhyde’s house, he didn’t say much over coffee, allowing Will to mull over what he’d felt and seen. Someone betrayed Dolarhyde, that much was certain –whether on purpose or not, he couldn’t say, but it was a betrayal all the same. After their conversation at Lecter’s office, his ability to know that Will enjoyed killing Hobbs, there is a sense of something odd, something alluring in the manner in which he tracked Will throughout his office, gleaning more information from Will than Will thought he’d gained from Lecter.

           It was a little exciting, if he was being completely honest with himself.

           “He’s worked with empaths before, and he was my mentor in school. Apart from his professional recommendations, I put my stamp on him.”

           It means more to him that she recommends him than anyone else, although he’s not sure if he should say that. His level of comfort around certain people is something he holds close, not using words to express how much or little someone means to him. That creates vulnerability, and Will has had enough with vulnerability, with letting too much in. He’s had to share a bed with two dead bodies; he doesn’t want to imagine a third, one alive and needing validation of his friendship.

           “He’s smart,” he allows after he finishes his coffee. “I read his work.”

           “All of it?”

           He doesn’t want to admit that yes, of course he’d read every single published piece. “A bit. He seems to understand empaths differently than others. He doesn’t fear us.”

           “People don’t fear empaths,” she says, but at his cross look, she amends hastily, “at least, not the way you imply. No one likes their secrets being exposed by a simple glance. No one likes thinking that if someone touches them, they know everything.”

           “No one likes an empath going rogue and killing people,” he says sarcastically.

           “You’ll find your RA,” Alana assures him.

           “I was talking about me.”

           That takes her by mild surprise, and she has to think about his words for awhile before she can find something to say to try and comfort him. Will isn’t looking for comfort, though; when he gets a call from Jack to meet him at a crime scene, he figures he’s looking for something similar to comfort, but something that doesn’t ache so much on the way down.

-

           It’s an open field with tall grass swaying in the wind, a cool breeze to whisper the cold day that it’s going to be. Will takes his jacket off and rolls up his shirt sleeves to really bask in the feeling of the environment around him, and he picks his way around a few vehicles to walk along a path stamped down from use. There isn’t a cloud in the sky, and the sun bears down on his gloved hands. When a bit of stray wheat dances and brushes against his arm, he can feel the pressure of a grasshopper leaping, of a doe rushing with wild panic. He twitches away from it and continues on his path.

           Jack has had enough time to make sure the crime scene is ‘safe’ for him, and Will steps around a few police officers in order to take in the scene. It’s a bit nauseating, and the coffee roils in his stomach, but he forces himself to look because that’s his job and that’s what he does so wonderfully well.

           “Whenever you’re ready,” the annotator tells him.

           Sometimes he wonders if it’s a test from the FBI, the things he’s seen and the death he’s witnessed secondhand. Surely no one would take a young woman and throw her onto the head of a stag; surely the FBI merely wants to test his mettle, his obedience to them when they ask him to look at things like this. As he circles her, arms splayed in supplication to the heavens above, he knows that such thoughts are nothing but paranoia, though –he’s seen enough into the hearts and minds of mankind to know that there are plenty of people that, given half the chance, would eat someone alive if it got them one step ahead.

           He inhales the stench of open wounds, of a chest cavity missing a vital piece for life, and after removing his gloves, he presses his hands into the blood, throwing walls down rather than letting them fall on their own time.

           You are nothing.

           You think of yourself rather highly, as any with privilege does; this is not so, though. Through these actions of mine, I’ve reduced you to what you truly are –a pig, as easy to kill as the swine to the slaughter, as malleable as clay as I slice down your chest and break past the ribs to remove what gives life anew through each breath. Are we not more than flesh and bone? Yes, yes; as life was so given to you, I take away and give myself at my leisure, at my pleasure.

           Will opens his eyes, and the woman before him –Cassie Boyle, his mind provides –still lives. She struggles, but he holds tight, and brown eyes meet his with the sort of panic and fear one gives when they know just how close they dance the line to death.

           He doesn’t smile at her, nor does he taunt her. His actions are methodical, as smooth and unhesitating as one ties a shoe. With strength, with utmost precision he lifts her and slams her onto the stag head, and the screams of agony that rip through her invigorate him, embolden him. As she flails and tries to free herself, a knife is produced and the clean, forced line down her chest is one of time, of practice and strength. Her screams turn to whimpers, to gasping chokes as her brain struggles to comprehend what is happening –

           -Will needs no such effort, though; he knows exactly what he is doing as he does it.

           The lungs are removed, and along his hands he sees gloves and an odd, vinyl suit over a nondescript black top. With finesse, he removes them and stares down at wide eyes and a gaping mouth, a body struggling to provide what it no longer can.  The contrast of skin to blood, of bone to gore is empowering, and in her final moments of life, as her heart shudders and struggles, Will stares down and imagines just how beautiful the backdrop of the field around them set to the woman impaled on the horns, her purpose nothing more than to provide a contrast to Garrett Jacob Hobbs and a freshly prepared meal.

           Can’t you see, Agent Graham? This is the sort of thing you have the capacity to be.

           He comes to and takes several steps back, grasping for a wet rag that’s provided by someone he can’t see, stuck as he is blinking back the sensation of what lungs feel like in gloved hands, what bones feel like jutting through skin. He lifts his walls in his mind, raises them high, but they fight him for longer than he likes, and he has to use another rag to fully remove all of what he’s consumed through his skin.

           “What’d you see?” Jack asks him. The annotator stands nearby, pen poised over the notepad. Will gasps and inhales sharply, closing his eyes tight for several furious heartbeats.

           “…This is for me,” he murmurs, and his voice is half-strangled.

           “You?”

           “It isn’t Dolarhyde,” he says, and he opens his eyes to look at Jack. “That’s why you called, isn’t it? You thought it was Dolarhyde?”

           “Who is it?”

           “I didn’t see that,” he says, and once his hands are sufficiently clean, he holds the rag out and someone takes it from him, allowing him to put his gloves back on with jerky, curt movements. “Intelligent psychopath, a sadist; not one I’ve seen before. He removed the victim’s lungs while she was alive, after he impaled her on the antlers. He’s either eaten, or he’s going to eat the lungs.”

           “Eat the lungs,” Jack repeats flatly.

           “He sees her as a pig. He sees all of us as pigs, and he wanted to show me that.”

           “Why you?” Jack presses. “Is it another empath? Another rogue?”

           “No, this…this person knows about me. About what happened with Hobbs, I think. Hobbs impaled women on antlers, so he impaled this woman on antlers.” He scrambles to try and think, to focus past the chill down his spine at someone that spoke so vividly to him. “He…asked me if I could see.”

           “He asked you?”

           “He did this with me in mind, Jack. He did this to get at me.”

            “Why?”

            “I don’t know,” Will snaps, and he thinks of the last line before he was able to pull himself away. He should tell Jack what the voice said, dissonant, faraway, but he can’t quite bring himself to. This is the sort of thing you have the capacity to be.

           He doesn’t tell Jack. He doesn’t want Hansen called in. He doesn’t want a therapist, god forbid a review of his mental state if they think he’s getting too close to the edge. He surprised, then, to hear Hannibal Lecter of all people say,

           “Could it be that there is a copycat or a protégé, Agent Crawford? Someone that Agent Hobbs worked with?”

           Will turns his head to look, and the person holding the bloodstained, wet rags is Dr. Lecter of all people, gloved and dressed for the cooler weather.

           “Could be,” Jack admits, and he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s not Dolarhyde? You’re sure?”

           “That’s not Dolarhyde; the tone is different. Dolarhyde seemed purposeful, in control, but this…this was methodical. This was planned, and he was amused the entire time, like it was some kind of punchline to some great big joke.”

           “Are you going to have Agent Graham look into it?” Dr. Lecter asks. Someone nearby reaches for the rags in his hands and disappears with them. Will tracks the movements, studies the flex and twist of Lecter’s wrists as he turns them behind his back casually.

           “Oh, no,” Jack says before Will can speak. “Agent Graham works with RA’s if we can help it. He only gets these guys if we’re in way over our heads.”

           “An intelligent psychopath, particularly a sadist, is very hard to catch,” Will says, and he chances a glance back to her body, splayed out and vulgar in its expression. “You have to wait for them to make a mistake, leave something that an empath can see beyond the thoughts and impressions.”

           “We’ll have a Feeler ghost along the stag head and the surrounding area, see what comes up,” Jack says, and that’s Will’s sign to leave. He’s not just a Feeler, and he won’t have to deal with the case unless they’re in over their heads.

           Instead, he’s got Dolarhyde to keep him busy. He’s not sure which is the better trade-off.

           “Do you have information about his cases?” he asks Jack.

           “Director Purnell told me that she’d e-mail you,” Jack promised. An evasive answer, and Will takes it sullenly.

           Dr. Lecter follows him to his vehicle as he signs out from the crime scene, and they pause near the driver’s door, Will sneaking short, quick glances and the good doctor gazing with steady intent.

           “…Are they going to have you at every single scene I go to?” Will asks warily.

           “For the time being,” he replies lightly.

           “That a sign they don’t have any faith in me?”

           “It’s a sign that they want you to make a healthy, smooth recovery from the trauma you endured,” Lecter says, and at Will’s scoffing, indignant bark of laughter, he continues, “Where there was a stag head involved, they had suspicions it was a tie to Agent Hobbs, and they wanted to ensure you wouldn’t have a flashback of any sort to the previous incident.”

           “I didn’t,” Will snaps.

           “Didn’t you?”

           “No, this was nothing like Hobbs,” he says, waving a hand at Lecter’s amused expression. “Don’t give me that look, this was…Hobbs loved those girls. He wouldn’t disrespect them like this. He wouldn’t be vulgar, cruel. He thought their deaths were quick and merciful, but this guy…this guy was happy to relish in her pain. He knew the cuts to make, the way to turn her at just the right angle that she was impaled rather than falling against the antlers and sliding to the side. He…relished in her screaming.”

           Will is careful to speak slowly, that he can ensure that he says ‘he’ rather than ‘I’.

           “A foil to Agent Hobbs?”

           “A foil to Agent Hobbs,” Will agrees. “And…and a jab at me. Whoever they are, they’re jabbing at me.”

           “Does that make you feel threatened, Agent Graham?” Lecter wonders. In the brilliant sunlight of the crisp fall day, his hair holds golden hues, his skin alive and positively glowing. Will studies his expression, the way that his eyes can only take in what he can see rather than what’s behind the face.

           “…No. If anything, I-” He stops himself before he can say anything stupid, before he can say something he’ll regret. Dr. Lecter tilts his head slightly, prompting.

           “You what, Agent Graham?” he prompts.

           Will swallows, glances back to the scene in the short distance, agents hurrying to and fro, another empath standing off to the side and waiting, their back to the scene. He grimaces, adjusts his glasses that slide down his nose no matter how hard he tries to fix them, and he lets out a short, forlorn sigh.

           “If anything, I’d say they’re trying to play a game with me,” he says at last. To his surprise, Dr. Lecter doesn’t bother to attempt to correct him.

[wlwvoltron]

So This is Love

LESBIAN ALLURA WEEK DAY ONE: FIRST KISS/FIRST DATE

Allura shoved her hand up into her hair, pushing away falling strands from her face. She let out a sigh and slumped backwards, leaning onto the wall of the castle. She was so...tired.

“Everything alright, Princess?” Coran asked, his voice holding the care of a father.

“I’m fine, Coran,” she assured him. “The battles just have me worn out.” Allura gave him a smile that she hoped was reassuring, but Coran didn’t buy it. He eyed her warily, opening his mouth to say something, when the paladins came into the control room.

They had just come out of a battle with a particularly nasty robeast, and everyone was looking a little worse for wear. Pidge had a rather large burn on her hand, where her armor had given way. Hunk had bruises forming on his face, and Allura recalled his cry of help during the mission as the robeast struck his lion with some beam, making his head crash against his dashboard. Lance was cradling one hand in the other, his fingers looking like they weren’t quite bent the right way, and Keith had a bloody gash on his cheek.

Shiro...Shiro just looked very, very exhausted.

During the battle, he’d gasped something out about having recognized the robeast before, and Voltron had disbanded soon after, leaving everyone scrambled and worrying for him. Shiro had assured everyone he was fine, but Allura (and everyone else) saw through his lie.

Looking at all of the paladins, Allura realized her qualms would have to wait. She straightened up and folded her hands in front of her, giving her friends a small smile. “I know this mission was a rough one,” she said, “and you came out with trouble, but we succeeded in freeing Xther from the Galra Empire. We should all be proud of ourselves.”

Everyone nodded at her speech, albeit a bit halfheartedly, when Coran let out a curse.

“Quiznak,” he bit. “Princess, paladins, I’m sorry, but we’re going to need to make a stop at the Balmera. Something that blasted robeast did damaged the crystal.” Coran let out another curse, and spoke some colorful Altean phrases Allura was sure a princess wasn’t meant to hear.

Despite Coran’s clear dismay, Hunk’s face lit up. “Can we visit Shay? And Rax?” (Lance smirked at Hunk when he mentioned Rax. Allura wondered why.)

Allura smiled. “Of course, Hunk.”

“Yes!” He pumped his fist in the air, letting out a whooping noise. “This is going to be so great!”

Shiro gazed fondly at Hunk, like a father watching an overexcited child. “We need to go to the infirmary and get fixed up first,” he said. “None of us are in good shape right now.” Then, as a second thought, he said, “Coran, is the crystal operational enough for the infirmary?”

Coran nodded. “Yes, yes. But our shields are severely impaired. We’ll need to arrive at the Balmera soon in case we want to avoid certain death by one of the Galra’s troops.”

Allura nodded. “We leave for the Balmera in the morning. Right now, we rest and heal.”

***

The next morning, Allura, Coran, and the paladins were gathered in the launch room, ready to go to the Balmera. Hunk looked as excited as an Altean child on Skliftmis, a gift-giving (or gift-receiving, for the younger ones) holiday. He was rambling on about how he couldn’t wait to see Shay and Rax and all the other Balmerans, how he had missed the place, etc.

Allura couldn’t deny that she felt a small spark of excitement as well. It was always nice to visit ally planets, and to see how planets free from the tyranny of the Galra were faring. Allura also found herself looking forward to seeing Shay, although she couldn’t quite put her finger on why. But that didn’t matter.

“Ready to wormhole,” Allura said. The paladins took their seats as Allura placed her hands on the platform, connecting with the energy of the castle and the universe to wormhole away. She focused on the image of the Balmera, inputting the coordinates to the system, and a gaping blue wormhole opened up in front of the castle.

They sped through it, the Balmera appearing on the other side.

Hunk let out a noise of happiness, almost a squeal, but not quite, as they beheld the yellow/green planet. It looked much like Allura remembered it, only more crystals had appeared, giving the planet a sparkling effect. It looked amazing.

Allura couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face as they descended onto the Balmera and stepped out of the castle onto the rocky terrain. Balmerans greeted them, with Shay and her family at the front of the crowd.

“Princess! Advisor! Paladins! Hunk!” Shay sounded overjoyed to see them all, a large grin spreading across her face.

“Hello, Shay,” Allura said, stepping forward. Shay enveloped her in a hug as a greeting.

Allura felt something in her heart begin to overflow, causing a tingling sensation in her chest. Shay pulled away and went to hug Hunk and the others, but Allura still felt the phantom of Shay’s arms around her, her cheeks beginning to heat up.

What is this? Allura thought, though she already had an inkling of the answer.

“What brings you here today, Voltron?” Rax, Shay’s brother whom Allura always thought of as a bit cruel, asked.

“Our crystal is damaged,” Keith said. “We need to repair it or get a new one.”

“Only a repair will be necessary.” Coran launched into an explanation as to what had happened to the crystal and how to fix it, but Allura was distracted.

Shay was listening intently, leaning forward just a bit as if to hear Coran better, nodding along, and looking eager to help. Allura had to admire her.

Lance nudged her arm, causing Allura to jump. “Lance! What is it?”

He gave her a knowing smile, then pointed at Shay. “You’re staring.” (God, he was just like the annoying little brother Allura never had.)

Allura elbowed him in the gut, taking pleasure in the surprised, “Oof!” that came after it.

So what if she was staring? Allura was a princess. She could do what she wanted, and that included admiring Shay in all her beauty.

Shay was quite lovely. She was big and muscular, and her glowing eyes reminded Allura of the stars. Allura loved the stars.

After Coran finished his explanation with a few interjections from Pidge, a few mechanics from the Balmerans, Hunk, and Coran went inside the castle, discussing new ways to fix the crystal and how they could even improve it. Pidge raced after them, shouting, “I can help, too!” making Allura smile at her.

Lance, Keith, Allura, and Shay were the ones left. Shay was smiling after Hunk and her family in the castle, looking proud. Allura went over to her.

“So, Shay,” she said, “why aren’t you helping with the crystal?”

“I’m not much one for mechanics. I suppose I’m more of a nature person, or maybe an artist.” Shay looked around the Balmera, a small smile gracing her lips. (Lips Allura felt oddly attracted to). “I suppose there’s not much difference between the two.”

“Nature and art?” Allura asked.

“Yes,” Shay said, “they’re very connected.”

Allura nodded. “When I was little, and Altea was still around,” she said, “I would go into the gardens of the castle with my mother, and I would paint her with the junniberries, which are - were - a type of pink flower. I don’t think I ever painted her very well, because I was so small, but she would always put my pictures up all over the castle, as if I were some esteemed artist.” Allura smiled at the memory. Her mother had been the kindest woman she’d ever known. Allura hoped to be like her, one day.

Shay seemed to read Allura’s mind. “Your mother sounds like an amazing woman,” she said softly.

“She was,” Allura replied, voice equally soft.

Shay’s eyes widened. “Princess, I’m so sorry.”

Allura smiled, a bit sadly, and said, “Do not be sorry that she is no longer with us. The loss was a hard one, but...her life was well-lived. She loved unconditionally, and with everything she had. I think you would’ve liked her.”

Shay laughed. “If she was anything like you, I’m sure I would’ve!”

Allura felt her face heat up at that comment. “W-well, I’m- I’m flattered.” She resisted the urge to smack herself. “I’m flattered”? Who said that?

Shay looked amused at Allura’s response, laughing out loud when Allura covered her blushing face in her hands. The laugh wasn’t malicious at all - Allura didn’t think Shay could do anything malicious - but rather wholeheartedly pleased by Allura’s reaction to her flirting.

Once Allura recovered from embarrassment, and Shay stopped chuckling every time she saw her, Allura straightened her back and looked Shay in the eyes. “I do think my mother is far more like you than me.”

Shay didn’t get these words at first, but after a minute, she was the one hiding her blushing face in her hands, and Allura was the one laughing.

“You’re too nice, Princess,” Shay kept repeating, mumbling into her hands. “Too nice.”

“You are as well!” was Allura’s continuous response, which only made Shay blush more.

Allura wondered where her sudden confidence in flirting had come from. She had never had the courage to act like this back in the old days of Altea, when suitors were always trying to gain her affections. Allura thought maybe Lance had gotten to her.

Speaking of Lance, he and Keith had disappeared off somewhere. Allura didn’t dwell on what that meant.

After a few more minutes of excessive compliments, Shay turned to Allura. (Yes, there were most definitely stars in her eyes.) “Come on, Princess,” she said, “I want to show you my favorite place on Balmera.”

Before Allura could respond, Shay grabbed her hand and led her to a giant, rainbow colored crystal.

“Wow,” Allura gasped, eyes wide in awe. “I had no idea crystals could look like this.”

“Oh, neither did anyone else, before this crystal emerged,” Shay said. “But this isn’t even the best part. Come with me.”

Shay took Allura’s hand again, leading her around to a small hole in the crystal, just big enough to climb through.

“You- we can go inside the crystal?” Allura asked.

Shay nodded excitedly and pulled Allura in after her.

Inside the crystal, it was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. Thousands of different colors bounced around and sparkled, mixing together to create an indescribably amazing effect. Allura was reminded a bit of space, only with far more colors. She was in awe.

“Shay, this is amazing,” Allura said, wonder in her voice. She finally ripped her eyes away from the crystal, the sparkles looking like stars, only to be confronted by more stars in Shay’s eyes.

Shay was looking down at Allura with so much emotion that Allura was taken aback. Tentatively, slowly, yet with no reluctance, Allura took Shay’s other hand in hers, realizing she had never let go of the one Shay had led her by.

“You’re amazing,” Shay breathed.

Allura met her eyes, and, between them in that moment, there was an unspoken connection.

The air was filled with a soft electricity as Allura stood on the tips of her toes and Shay leaned down, their lips connecting, Allura finally realizing why she had admired Shay so much.

The admiration she had felt was the allure of love, the pull to Shay drawing her closer, closer, closer.

After what felt like an eternity, the two girls pulled away from each other and stared, reverent in each others eyes.

Yes, Allura decided, this was love.

All exhaustion she had ever felt was cleared away by the exhilaration of that realization, by the touch of her lips to Shay’s, by the way Shay’s hands slipped from hers to settle on her waist and pull her even closer.

Allura’s hands moved up to Shay’s neck to pull her down a little more (wow, she was tall) to let Allura kiss her more.

This woke everything in Allura up, cleared away every tired cell in her body, replaced them with something so awake it took her breath away.

This was love.

[tinymixtapes]

Music Review: Alan Vega - IT

Alan Vega IT [FADER; 2017] Rating: 4.5/5 The infamous early performances of Suicide are understood to be foundational events that set the bar for shock-punk extremity. As Henry Rollins stated a year ago in the official public announcement of Alan Vega’s death, “[Suicide’s] confrontational live performances, light-years before Punk Rock, are the stuff of legend.” These performances (along with the preceding efforts of The Stooges) ushered in a lineage of shock-rock egos purporting hypotheses for experimentation with violent confrontation, social sculpture, hierarchical relations, and rock & roll as their interests. These now tired and problematized theses have had their moments: Suicide’s eventual colleague James Chance physically confronted apathetic audiences just before harsh noise pioneers Hanatarash and Hijokaidan brought threat levels to a peak with explosives, projectiles, bulldozers, and urination. These theses may have met maximum attention in the mid-80s when artists like GG Allin and The Mentors regularly appeared on daytime talkshows to gleefully debate their violence with angry and bewildered parents. At their worst, these experiments in shock rock were backed by a familiar argument: an artist inflicting violence for the sake of truth. “Twentieth century art movements were veritably obsessed with diagnosing injustice and alienation, and prescribing various ‘shock and awe’ treatments to cure us of them — a method Austrian filmmaker Michael Haneke usefully, if revoltingly described in a 2007 interview as ‘raping the viewer into independence,’” notes writer Maggie Nelson in The Art of Cruelty. Nelson argues that performative cruelty is generally only more irritating when its actors propose it is for their viewer’s good. When such a harbinger appears, he implies that he not only knows what is wrong with his audience, but also what will cure them. It is with this attitude that GG Allin appropriated the punk ethos of anti-consumerism and anti-puritanism and proposed that his concoction of irreverence and violence was the pill to solve it all. A similar attitude carries Sun Kil Moon’s Mark Kozelek through his own verbal abuse. He once advised to Guardian journalist Laura Snapes, “Listen to your elders. I’m 48 and I have wisdom. I’ve seen girls laid out on the street with an ambulance picking them up because they are crossing the street with those stupid headphones on.” This already demeaning piece of advice came before he publicly called out its recipient by name in front of an audience of 1,900 (of which she was not a part). Kozelek finds himself consistently bemoaning journalists, reporters, and commentators for the simple reportage and speculation upon his own speech. The irony of his (as well as many others’) grumblings about the truth is that he won’t have it fed back to him. Of course, such an attitude is nothing new; Nelson quotes painter Francis Bacon stating in 1966, “people tend to be offended by facts, or what used to be called truth.” Here tells the 79-year-old Vega — in anticipation of his own death, writing, recording, and performing in spite of it — “the truth is dead… the saint is dead… the motorcycle explodes.” Vega doesn’t beat around the bush. Within the dark cityscape of IT, there are eight different proclamations of death spoken with the same structure: “the [creature/man/brotherhood/skull/ghost/truth/saint/blaze] is dead.” This is not to mention the provocation that introduces the album, delivered with the nonchalance of Drake letting loose an acronym (e.g. “YOLO,” “HYFR”), Vega snickers, “DTM. Dead To Me.” It is this very nonchalance that carries Vega through the drama of IT without the faintest pretension. Listening to the album, I never had the feeling that a promise of horror went undelivered. Instead, the album’s mild horror lurched from a presence, as if to say, “it is what it is.” Vega’s stake on truth is an effect of his adherence to simple sentences and present tense. The album’s title track, for example, screams, “It has a gun/ It is ready/ To kill somebody/ The killer is close/ You can smell it/ The weapon is loaded.” These disaffected proclamations meet some of the harshest yet most vibrant instrumentals to support Vega’s voice to date (production is credited to Vega and his wife/frequent collaborator Elizabeth Lamere). Exempting a few moments of punctuation — the sudden drop and spattering that occurs five minutes into album-opener “DTM;” the butchering edits that close “IT” before Vega’s voice is lost to a vacuum — the music enables Vega’s voice as his best accompanists have: providing the expository setting and minimalistic bedding necessary for Vega to project his scene upon and float above. His delivery will sound strange to those unfamiliar, but it will be oddly cozy to those who have known it all along. Vega is at his most animated and affected on “Motorcycle Explodes,” a song that represents, if not Vega’s own death, the death of his image. It begins with a dry howl that effectively carries the horror of his trademark “Frankie Teardrop” shrieks. The song’s subject can be none other than Ghost Rider, the figure that opened Suicide’s discography four decades ago and provided the band its name. “[T]he ghost is dead, the truth is dead/ At rocket speed, subhuman,” Vega shouts, imagining the rider killed by his ride, his only point of relation to his surroundings. This represents Vega’s point of simultaneous reflection and collapse, a marker at which the relationship between his art and his life can maintain conversation no longer (Rollins: “Alan’s life is a lesson of what it is to truly live for art. The work, the incredible amount of time required, the courage to keep seeing it and the strength to bring it forth — this was Alan Vega.”) The album’s coda — “Prayer,” “Prophecy,” and “Stars” — is both cruel and forgiving. More or less a kick in the ass. “Prophecy” begins as a direct reflection, “Been kicked hard/ Friggin punched out/ Pushed into cement walls/ Got a bloody head/ Blood is dripping down my face.” Then he hands off his experience, “I’m bruised everywhere/ It’s happened before/ In the street/ On the stage/ And it will/ Happen again/ Yeah tremendous over/ And over and over and over/ Again/ It’s my prophecy.” Vega universalizes his defiance. “Over and over and over and over again” cannot be contained within one life. The care with which he delivers these lines, the lack of audacity, allows their recipient inclusion. “I will get up/ I will survive,” he continues, “I will go on and on and on/ So fuck you killers/ Fuck you/ I stand/ It’s my prophecy.” With that, Vega hands off his spirit and his legacy. The next words we are gracefully given, “It’s yours, It’s your life/ It’s your given hand.” --- G.G. Allin once threatened to the audience of The Jane Whitney daytime talk show, “your kids are my kids.” When he said this, he was suggesting a battle over ideology. He felt the very real power an artist may have to stake a claim over another’s subject formation. IT, in all of its auditory abuse and bleak imagery, shows no such ambition. The burden Vega bestows is the act of engaging with the world as he has: experimental in art as in life, such that the two converge. Vega’s interest in cruelty arose from an interest in how a social space could be transformed by a single action that none before had thought possible. In Please Kill Me: The Uncensored Oral History of Punk, he recalls seeing The Stooges: “[Iggy] went to sing and he just pukes all over, man. He’s running through the audience and shit … staring at the crowd and going ‘Fuck you! Fuck you!’… It was one of the greatest shows I ever saw in my life. It changed my life, because it made me realize everything I was doing was bullshit.” Of course, venue violence is no longer interesting. Beyond that, it is increasingly a very real threat. Perhaps it is no coincidence that IT’s cover appears to be an EXIT sign severed by the camera, marking Vega’s exit with a material affirmation. This simple transformation echoes the legend that Vega, at Suicide’s early performances, used to cause himself to bleed amidst Martin Rev’s cacophony, only to block the rear exits so audiences could not flee. Amidst the fires, shootings, and bombings that have unfortunately become a familiar part of our musical landscape, such a stunt is no longer respectable. On the other side of four decade’s growth sits IT with its intentions intensified and redirected. The sign half-visible on the cover does not obfuscate the way out. Transformed, it encourages consciousness, directness, and presence — nothing more. http://j.mp/2h1JvFw